


Grace Under Pressure

by osaki_nana_707



Series: Bite Hard 'Verse [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drug Addiction, M/M, References to Suicide, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-17
Updated: 2011-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-13 15:44:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 40,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osaki_nana_707/pseuds/osaki_nana_707
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. <b>Sequel to <i>Bite Hard</i></b>. Arthur reunites with Eames. By the next day, they're living together. Still, with the two of them, there's always the opportunity for things to get <i>complicated</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Part One

Arthur supposed it was only a matter of time before he saw Eames again.

He supposed it was only a matter of time before he glanced him on the street or spotted him across the dance floor at a club when he'd go out with his friends, but really, even he didn't expect things to happen how they did.

He really, truly, honestly did not expect to actually talk to him, much less kiss him. He didn't expect to drag Eames out to his Kia and speed the rest of the way back to his apartment and feel him up in the elevator ride to the third floor.

No, he hadn't seen any of that coming, but he was finding it difficult to care when Eames slipped his hands up underneath Arthur's shirt, cold fingers tracing along his chest in moves he still seemed to remember with practiced ease.

He hadn't ever planned on having sex with Eames again, and yet, here he was with his pants being tugged off of his ankles at the same time as his shoes, being pushed up against the wall, being freed from his shirt and kissed all the way down his spine.

"Oh, you gorgeous thing," Eames sighed, fingers dancing across Arthur's skin, and Arthur could barely make a word form in his brain, much less get it out of his mouth. "You're no scrawny teenager anymore, are you?"

Arthur just moaned low in his throat because Eames was sticking a slick finger inside of him up to the first knuckle. Arthur wondered for a second how Eames could possibly know where the lube was in an apartment he'd never been to, but he then remembered that he always put it in the same place Eames had put his. He also wondered why they were up against the wall when the bed was literally three feet away, but then Eames pushed his finger in deeper and Arthur forgot how to think.

"You are _tight_ ," Eames mentioned. "You're out of practice."

"What was your first clue?" Arthur barked back teasingly because he was already so painfully hard he thought he might come just from Eames's fingers inside him alone, never being touched.

Eames took him by the shoulders, whirling him around, and then threw him onto the bed, pressing his body flush with Arthur's nearly immediately afterward. Arthur grinded himself against Eames's thigh, groaning in a way he was pretty sure he'd never done before.

"Why are you still dressed?" Arthur complained.

Eames laughed and tugged the t-shirt and the long-sleeved shirt off of his chest in one fluid motion, tossing it into a crumpled heap in the floor.

Arthur made immediate mental notes about Eames's new tattoos.

Eames added his jeans and underwear to the pile immediately and then lifted Arthur's leg but only to tug off one of the socks he was still wearing.

" _Eames_ ," Arthur whined. "Fuck me, for God's sake!"

Eames kissed the bottom of Arthur's foot and let the other sock be, hoisting both of Arthur's legs up and pressing himself against his entrance. "It might hurt."

"Feels good," Arthur murmured, head lolling backwards, eyes rolling.

It had been _way_ too long, Arthur thought.

Eames shoved himself inside, and Arthur didn't howl out because he still had some tiny semblance of self-control, but there were tears instantly. He clawed at the sheets, trying to grip to something, and let Eames fold him over and fuck him with the same intensity and speed that he had used the first time.

… _Eames_ , with his stubble and lips and intense eyes that saw only him in that moment… _Fuck_ , he was good-looking. Eames had only gotten better looking, Arthur thought, but truthfully he was too blissed out by his nostalgia to be an accurate judge at the moment. He loved Eames's short prickly hair just as much as the messy hair he used to wear, and he loved that Eames smelled the same, and he loved that Eames still knew just how to make him make _that_ sound. He adored the new tattoos, and he cared nothing about how Eames had thinned out over five years, even though he'd been a fan of his bulk. The truth was, it was possible that he hadn't and Arthur was remembering it wrong…

…but that was impossible, because Arthur remembered everything about Eames perfectly.

It didn't take long before Arthur let out a shuddering scream and spilled all over himself, too out of practice to hold out for long, and he watched while Eames pulled out, only vaguely able to realize that he hadn't worn any protection, that there was warmth dripping out from inside of him.

It wasn't surprising. He didn't have anything.

Arthur was dazed in post-coital bliss and Eames, just like always, cleaned him up before sinking down into the bed next to him, pressing kisses down his neck and collarbone.

"You want to go again?" Arthur asked, heaving for breaths even still.

Eames hummed a little against Arthur's throat. "Give me a few minutes," Eames said. "I'm not as young as I used to be."

Eames fell asleep though, and Arthur didn't care, curling up in Eames's arms and thinking that he was stupid to ever let it stop.

* * *

When Arthur got home from school, Eames was still there. Arthur hadn't completely expected that to be the case, but it wasn't an unpleasant surprise.

However, when he shut the door and tossed his keys into the bowl by the door, he took a good, long, non-infatuated look at Eames who was sitting at his kitchen table, hunched over a bowl of cereal like he'd literally _just_ gotten up.

Eames _was_ thinner. It wasn't just Arthur's imagination. On top of that, he looked ragged, a man who had been grinding his gears against society's and not getting very far. The clothes he had been wearing the day before were the same ones he was wearing now (which wasn't surprising, since he hadn't actually had anything with him), and Arthur realized now that they were holey, faded, and didn't exactly smell nice. His stubble didn't seem planned either… and if the way he was shoveling the cereal into his mouth was any indication, he hadn't exactly eaten recently.

"Arthur," he greeted, beaming like the sun itself.

"Hey," Arthur said, slipping into the seat across from him. He noticed the dirt under Eames's fingernails. "I didn't think you'd still be here."

"Why the bloody hell would I leave? I'd never go without saying goodbye, especially not after how good last night was. If you're going to send me packing, I do hope you'll give me one for the road."

Arthur chuckled, digging a cigarette out of his pocket. "Last night might not have been my wisest decision."

Eames dug a lighter out of his jeans and lit Arthur's cigarette for him. "You never were one for wise decisions, darling, but they usually work out for you in the end. I wonder if you got that from me."

Arthur exhaled, smoke misting Eames in his vision. "It was a spur of the moment thing. I wasn't thinking. I shouldn't have—Well, I really shouldn't have done all that. It probably wouldn't be the best idea to start fucking around with you… again…" he suddenly seemed to find the tabletop very interesting.

Eames took Arthur's cigarette and puffed on it a few times before placing it back between his lips. "Fucking around?" Eames asked, making a face. "I didn't just fuck you for entertainment value, if that's what you're thinking."

"Oh, really," Arthur replied, sounding skeptical so as not to sound distressed. His heart thudded against his ribcage, and it was like the beginning of things all over again.

Truth be told, he knew he never fell out of love with Eames. However, he didn't realize how strong his feelings still were until he was staring possibility in the face.

"What does that mean?" Arthur continued.

"It means I wanted to fuck you because I always wanted to. I may have been with other people over the years, but… well, Arthur, it's always been you."

"Always been me—Is this some kind of code?" Arthur asked, but he could feel the heat rising beneath his skin. He had a feeling he knew what it meant, but he wasn't going to play the game and get his hopes up. He wasn't a stupid teenager anymore. He wanted to hear it point-blank.

He wanted to say it back.

 _Say it_ , he begged with his eyes because it had been what he'd wanted since he was an awkward, unsure sixteen-year-old. _Please say it_.

Eames snorted, grinning. "You want me to be obvious? Not one for the romantic words and wistful gestures, eh? You really are all grown up now, aren't you? Fine. I love you. I've loved you for years, you ignorant git. Use your bonce."

Arthur didn't cry, even though he wanted to. "Jeez, all you had to do was say so," he said nonchalantly. "I might not have left all those years ago if you'd just said it then."

"—which is why I specifically _didn't_ say that," Eames interrupted. "You and I both know that it wouldn't work back then… but we're both adults now, and I have to be honest with you, love…" Eames paused to drink the milk out of his bowl, clearly a bit uncomfortable admitting what he was saying.

When he continued, Arthur understood why.

"Well… ever since that day you left, I've thought about you and thought about you. I was bloody miserable. The only time I was happy was when I was painting, and all my paintings were inspired by every second with you. Once I wore those times out, I ran out of inspiration, and now… well… I'm not doing so well. The economy's not so good, so the steakhouse I was working at closed down, and I couldn't find another job, and I lived with Yusuf for a while. That… didn't work out so well, either, so I got my own place, but with my inspiration running dry, I couldn't afford to keep it and… now… um… Now, I call the local bus station or the library steps my home when I don't have a friend to stay with."

Arthur lowered the cigarette from his mouth, pressing it into the ashtray. "Eames, you're… homeless?"

"I guess you could say that," Eames shrugged. "They always say home is where the heart is, but it's pretty difficult to feel that way when you're freezing your arse off. I've only been on the street for about two months, and I did spend quite a few days of it inside though, so I'm okay. I haven't been going without completely. I panhandle and draw portraits. I manage… Truth is, if I thought about that time together with you, things didn't seem so bad."

"Oh, my God, _Eames_ ," Arthur sighed, and he very nearly _did_ cry then.

"Yusuf doesn't know I'm on the streets. I don't want to worry him… I'm ah—sorry for springing all this on you. I don't want you to worry about me either. I would have told you, but I was so happy to see you, and I didn't want to spoil it. I wanted to… I wanted to tell you how I felt, at least."

"I won't have to worry about you," Arthur replied, standing sharply, "because you're going to stay here with me. It's not big, but I can handle the rent and all that since my mom set up a trust fund for me with dear old ex-daddy's money. If you can help out with groceries once in a while—"

"I can't ask you to do that, Arthur—"

"No, no… it's fine. It's cool, Eames… I mean…" Arthur paused when he realized his hands were shaking and tried squeezing them into fists to make it stop, but it only made it more obvious.

…Shit, he _was_ crying.

"I… I love you too, Eames," he sniffed, sinking backwards into his sixteen-year-old self. "If you don't stay, I _will_ worry about you. God damn it, it wasn't supposed to be this way… I wasn't supposed to still feel this way after all these years. We weren't supposed to talk or do this again—but I don't care, I just—"

Eames took him into his arms them, stroking his hair, and Arthur felt just as weak and childish as he used to, and he hated it. It was specifically why the whole _Eames_ thing wasn't supposed to happen again because he needed to be stronger. He needed to be his own person and not let Eames control everything he did, but—

"I can paint with you here," Eames said. "If I'm going to stay, I'll do my part, all right? When I'm back on my feet, we'll see what we'll do then, all right?"

Arthur just nodded weakly.

"I love you, darling," Eames whispered in Arthur's ear.

"I love you too."

* * *

Eames went and retrieved the few items he owned from miscellaneous friends while Arthur was at school the next day.

An old acquaintance from school named Julia had all of his clothes and his motorcycle.

A ex-work buddy that Eames didn't actually like that much named Nash held onto his art supplies but always complained about them smelling and taking up space.

He left his unsold paintings in a storage room at his dealer's house.

Vince Tabor was a scrawny, dirty-teethed man in his early thirties that Eames knew was kind of a prick, but he was reliable enough. Eames stored his paintings in the empty room in his house, sometimes slept on the floor, and always got his blow there.

Eames wasn't as bad about using it as he used to be, really he wasn't. When things got dark for him, when inspiration was low and work was miserable (he hadn't intended on work being non-existent), he was tempted into taking a hit from Vince during a walk home from a bar. He was a little drunk and a lot lonely and ended up agreeing after a persistent argument that only a previous heroin addict could possibly understand. He'd shot up that night, just once, and it was _glorious_. When he was high, he couldn't remember why he had ever stopped. It just felt _good_.

So, yes, he shot up occasionally. Maybe a couple of times a week. Maybe only once a week. On a particularly bad week he may have done it every day, but that was only _one_ week, and most of the time he was fine. It wasn't like he was selling his paintings and drawings and panhandling just so he could buy drugs. He needed food and clothes and art supplies and tea too.

Still, when Yusuf had found his stash, he'd kicked Eames out and hadn't spoken to him since. Eames had tried to tell him that he wasn't a fucking addict anymore; that he just did it on bad days, but Yusuf never did know how to listen to reason.

"Howdy," Vince greeted, swinging open the door. His voice was gravelly and discomforting as always. He leaned against the doorframe, and Eames wasn't sure if it was just a casual, comfortable gesture, or if it was just that he needed it to stay standing. Vince was an addict; not Eames. "What can I do you for?"

"Came to get all of my shit out of your room. I've got a place to stay now."

"Awesome," Vince said, stepping aside to let Eames in, gesturing up the rickety wooden stairs with a dirt-smudged hand. "That shit is crowding up the place anyways. Hope whoever you're living with doesn't get annoyed by clutter… you know, or shitty artwork."

"Kindly go fuck yourself," Eames replied with a forced smile. He tried to remain on friendly terms with Vincent, shrug things off as teasing and jokes, but it was a difficult task to accomplish. "Bring me a bag, would you? I've got your money."

Eames carried his paintings two at a time down the stairs to the waiting taxi outside. He thankfully only had eight, cramming them into the trunk and backseat while being able to hold one in the front (the cab driver didn't much like it, but Eames had already paid him extra). Vince patted Eames on the ass as Eames leaned over to put the last painting in the trunk, but Eames didn't protest because he felt the small bag get slipped into his jeans pocket.

"Come back again soon," Vince said, pocketing the money Eames slipped to him discreetly, "or don't, y'know, since you take up so much space. Have fun mooching off someone else for a change. You're lucky I didn't burn these atrocities."

Eames cracked his knuckles to avoid punching the bastard, just like he usually did. It was all part of the exchange.

"Thanks again, Vince," Eames replied, forcing on another smile. "Ta."

Eames left more on edge than before, keeping his eyes peeled for cops and for any suspicious activity from the driver. He knew when he had heroin in his pocket, he couldn't trust _anyone_.

It was something that Roxanne had taught him.

* * *

When Arthur returned home, he found his apartment littered with paintings and his washing machine rattling. Eames was sprawled out in Arthur's bed, snoring. Arthur couldn't help but pout a little, since he'd wanted to spend some time with him, but with all the new items scattered around his apartment, he imagined Eames had worn himself out.

He microwaved pizza rolls and munched on them while working on his homework.

It was just as he was switching subjects that Eames shuffled out of the room, looking around blearily as though he'd never seen the place before.

"What time is it?" he asked, voice still slurred with sleep.

"About five-thirty, six," Arthur replied with a shrug. "I do hope you haven't been napping all day."

"It's because I intend to keep you up all night," Eames responded with a mischievous grin, but it lacked strength. He placed a palm on the back of Arthur's neck and leaned down to kiss him.

Arthur noticed Eames's hand was clammy, and he also thought he smelled something oddly unfamiliar, but then Eames's mouth was on his, and he forgot to care.

He brought his palm to Eames's cheek, stretching his neck to deepen the kiss as much as he could from his seat, and suddenly Eames was lifting him into his arms and carrying him across the floor, expertly managing not to break the kiss.

By the time they were in the bedroom, Arthur was struggling for air, and Eames pulled away to smile at him.

"Eames, I have a paper to write—" Arthur tried to say, but it barely came out as he swallowed air.

"Then, we'll just have to be quick then, won't we?" Eames replied, raising his eyebrows.

…and really, Arthur couldn't say no to that, not when Eames was touching him like that, and he nearly let himself just give into the pleasure completely.

It was just before Eames pushed himself inside that Arthur managed to regain some composure, despite his arousal, and stop him. "Eames, wait," he said, and Eames did.

"Something wrong?"

"Did you get um—" Arthur said, gesturing uselessly. "Um—the uh, protection?" He'd asked him to pick some up on his way out that morning.

Eames furrowed his brow, trying to remember. "I… forgot, sorry… but, I mean, we did it before."

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ignore his desire to just go ahead and do it. "No, no… Eames, we—I shouldn't have done that. I mean, I don't know who all you've slept with, and you used to do drugs, so—"

"Arthur, I'm _clean_ ," Eames replied, seemingly instantly frustrated. "I've been tested, all right? I haven't fucked anybody since you. I've blown and been blown a couple of times, but that's it."

He left out the part that he hadn't been tested since before he met Arthur, but really, he didn't shoot up with anyone else, so he figured he was fine.

Arthur seemed wary and unsure, and he said, "You really haven't fucked anyone but me? In all five years?"

"Really," Eames replied. "Why, have you? Not that I'd be mad or anything—"

"No. Never."

Arthur decided not to think too hard about what that meant.

Eames apparently didn't either. "Then we're hunky-dory, right? Are we going to shag or not?"

Eames ran a finger up Arthur's cock, causing him to shiver and consent to him. It spilled out of his mouth in a moan while he arched up to get some sort of friction.

He still wasn't sure. He still felt like it was a bad idea, lectures from his sex education classes rolling around inside his head with the admissions of previous boyfriends… but _fuck_ , it just… felt _good_.

He didn't want to have to think about consequences because it was _Eames_. It was Eames, the man he was in love with, the man he'd _been_ in love with for years and finally had him all to himself, legally. He wanted to believe that he and Eames were just meant to be together and didn't have to get tested or wear protection because they weren't going to be shoving their pricks into anybody else. He wanted to believe that with everything he was because he'd had dreams and fantasies about that kind of life since he'd fallen for him back when he was a love-struck, stupid teenager.

Still… as much as he wanted to believe in the idea, some nagging thought in the back of his mind wouldn't let it go. Something there in his skull told him that it was a bad idea to even risk it, even if it _was_ Eames… actually, it was more dangerous _because_ it was Eames.

Had Eames used needles when he did drugs in the past? Had he and Roxanne shared needles? Was Roxanne clean? Roxanne had whored herself out for money for the drugs. Were the people she'd slept with clean?

The idea of it made him suddenly terrified, and he was shouting as Eames thrust into him now, hands scrambling at the headboard for some sort of support, and after only four thrusts from Eames, Arthur was spilling all over himself with a yelp.

He could tell Eames tried not to appear disappointed by how quick it had happened, but he could see it in his eyes.

"I'm—" Arthur started, but Eames cut him off with a light smooch.

"No apologies. It happens to the best of us. Maybe you'll be ready again by the time I'm finished."

Arthur just squeezed his eyes shut and let Eames continue and tried to turn his brain off.

When Eames was spent and asleep, an arm slouched over Arthur's chest, Arthur ran his fingertips down Eames's spine that protruded from his skin more than it used to and wondered why he couldn't just be a good boyfriend and let it go.

…but he just couldn't.

* * *

"You were a little late this morning."

Arthur blinked, looking up from his notes. Leaning over the table was Robert, the Dean's son and a friend of Arthur's. They'd gotten along fairly well from the start being that they were both gay and both had jackass fathers, but Arthur had never been interested in dating him. Robert was the type who nitpicked every single thing, a perfectionist in his own right, and he had the tendency to be a bit of a bastard when he didn't get his way (Arthur couldn't say he was completely different). Still, the boy was quite the accomplished writer (they'd met in Arthur's journalism classes), and he had some of the most amazing blue eyes Arthur had ever seen. He was still working on getting him to pose as his model, but Robert was camera shy.

"I overslept," Arthur responded, shrugging. It wasn't a lie. Eames had made good on his promise and kept him busy most of the night.

Robert slipped around to take a seat next to Arthur, bumping his shoulder with his elbow as he took a seat. "You didn't have your homework for your first class. What were you doing last night?"

"Trying to study for the test, like now," Arthur lied, gesturing at the rest of the students going over their notes one final time before the teacher walked in.

"Oh, you'll be fine," Robert said, rolling his eyes. "Even if you fail, it won't mar your fabulous record."

"You don't have to sound so jealous, Rob," Arthur replied with a small smirk, tilting his chin to lean it against the palm of his hand.

Robert raised his eyebrows at Arthur, and Arthur realized too late that the stretching of his neck had revealed a reddened bite mark on his collarbone.

"What?" Arthur asked defensively, sitting up straight again to hide it in the hopes that Robert didn't see it, but of course he did.

"You weren't studying last night," Robert whispered, eyes wide, slasher smile in place as per usual when he got too excited. "You got laid last night, didn't you!"

"Keep your voice down," Arthur hissed, even though Robert had already been whispering.

"You did, you _did_. Oh, my God, and here I thought you'd—everyone thought you were a prude."

"Not _prude_ , just _picky_ ," Arthur huffed, and he knew he was blushing noticeably. He only hoped no one else was watching. He couldn't get up the nerve to look up from his notes and check.

"Who was it?" Robert asked, leaning his chin on Arthur's shoulder. "It wasn't Blake, was it? You didn't get back with that asshole, did you?"

"Why would I have gotten back together with Blake?" Arthur grumbled, rubbing his temple. "Blake wasn't even willing to come out of the closet and ended up dating Sara Wilde."

"You'd think with a name like _Blake_ everyone would already know he was gay, especially with that feathery blonde hair."

"No, I didn't get back together with Blake. I don't know why I ever liked him in the first place." Arthur shivered and grimaced for emphasis.

"Then, who was it?"

"No one you know," Arthur mumbled.

"A stranger? You're not a prude at all! Hope you had a good time with Anonymous and got him out of your apartment before he stole all of your stuff for drug money."

"Fuck off, Robert!" Arthur complained. "It's not like that. I knew who he was, okay?... Jeez… Just because you don't know him doesn't mean he was a stranger."

"I know everyone you know. What was I supposed to think?"

"I knew him back in my high school days. We were sort of… _together_ back then, ran into each other, and… y'know… one thing led to another."

"Oh," Robert said and turned to look at the blackboard just as the teacher was walking in. He chewed on his bottom lip for a second and looked back. "Wait. You told me you didn't have a boyfriend in high school."

"Put away your notes and get out your pencils," the teacher said.

Arthur couldn't have been more grateful.

* * *

Eames couldn't stop smiling as he splattered paint across the canvas: a pale yellow underpainting—like sunlight, a peach for the crinkles around Arthur's eyes, an off-white for his teeth, a brown mixed with black for strand upon strand of long hair… and he even painted himself in there, on the other side of the canvas, their ears pressed together. He was still working on it when Arthur got in, slumping against the door and dropping all of his things around his feet with a long sigh.

"Welcome home, my love," Eames called, dropping his paintbrush down onto his easel and turning, rubbing his paint-covered hands together.

Arthur smiled, unable to help himself. "Hey," he said, crossing the room to wrap his arms around Eames's neck and just hold him, take in his scent. "You're a little flushed. You all right?"

"Just been working," Eames replied, extending his arm towards the painting for Arthur to see. "I thought you could use something to go over your mantel over there. Since this is technically _our_ place now, I thought I'd put both of us in it."

"It's beautiful," Arthur said in awe. "Your style's changed a little since the old days."

"It happens," Eames shrugged, nosing at Arthur's neck.

"You're getting paint all over this shirt," Arthur whined, but they both knew he didn't care. It was just a white t-shirt anyways. "My friend Robert was pestering me all morning because of that little bite mark you made by the way. When are you going to figure out that biting me is going to get me in trouble? It wasn't the first time, you know."

"—but I love the little noise you make when I bite you," Eames hummed and nibbled at Arthur's jawline as if to make a point. "Besides, it's not like you've got anything to hide anymore."

"I like to keep my school life and personal life separated," Arthur replied, lifting his arms so that Eames could pull his shirt off of him. "Besides, Robert has the tendency to be a little—"

"Forward?"

"Bitchy is what most people say."

Eames laughed, dropping to his knees to undo Arthur's belt. "Why are you friends?" he asked.

"He's not so bad most of the time," Arthur said, hips tilting forward, fingers curling against Eames's head. "Maybe you can meet him some time."

"You act like you don't want me to," Eames teased before licking a wet stripe up the underside of Arthur's prick.

Arthur shuddered for a moment and managed to recover. "He's so beautiful, you might leave me for him. He's got eyes as blue as the sea."

"I'd take your honey brown eyes over his any day," Eames replied and took Arthur into his mouth.

Arthur tilted his head back, smiling with his top row of teeth biting down on his bottom lip, and all of his worries from the other day vanished.

With Eames there, with their portrait smiling at them, with Eames's paint and newspapers mixed around with Arthur's schoolwork and abandoned coffee cups, with the sun beaming in the window on both of them… Arthur thought that maybe this whole _being together_ thing really would work.

He felt like his apartment had suddenly become a home.

Arthur groaned, knees shaking, and he wondered while he still could think why the hell he'd been so insecure about it in the first place. This was _Eames_. Eames was the man he was in love with, the man he'd loved for years, and he felt like he knew him better than anyone else. He didn't have any reason not to trust Eames.

…and if Eames's hands still felt kind of clammy, Arthur would blame it on the paint. If Eames's words had slurred a little when Arthur had gotten inside, he'd blame it on the accent.

He had no reason not to trust Eames…

…at least, he didn't think he did.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. **Sequel to _Bite Hard_**. Arthur reunites with Eames. By the next day, they're living together. Still, with the two of them, there's always the opportunity for things to get _complicated_.

Part Two

Eames bit down on his bottom lip as he leveled the needle with his vein, back pressed up against the bathroom door just in case, even though he knew Arthur wasn't home. He slipped the needle inside, tilted his head back, and sighed.

It was about six seconds and then he was overcome with euphoria.

"Oh… yes…" he hissed, removing the needle from his skin and pressing his thumb over the tiny bloom of blood at the injection site. Once he was sure the bleeding had stopped, he packed all of his supplies back into the leather nail kit he'd cleaned out for a good hiding place.

It wasn't that he had a problem.

It was just that he was afraid Arthur wouldn't understand that it was just a casual thing, that he only did it on a bad day—not that today was a _bad_ day, but he just sort of felt like it, and that didn't make him an addict. He'd been an addict before, but that wasn't who he was anymore. He didn't need it to survive or anything—

He tried to remember what he'd been thinking about—Oh, yes, Arthur. Arthur just wouldn't understand. Yusuf didn't understand, and he'd known Yusuf way longer than Arthur. He was ridiculously giddy over the fact that Arthur was back in his life, and he had new artwork to prove it. He was painting in color again, and it wasn't looking like absolute shit anymore, and he just didn't want to mess up what the two of them had going with a big misunderstanding.

…not that Arthur had always been the portrait of decency, being that they'd fucked when he was still too young to even drink… but he couldn't take any chances.

He had a place to live. He had inspiration to paint. Most importantly, he had Arthur.

He had _Arthur_ who he loved and who loved him back. He had Arthur, and he could go out in public and be seen with him without issue, and he didn't have to sneak around or lie about their relationship to anyone. They could just _be_.

Yes, he was giddy with love. It wasn't the drugs… well, it wasn't _just_ the drugs.

Eames stashed his nail kit underneath the sink and slipped out into the main room to get back to painting.

He spent a few hours on it, licking his lips and swallowing around his dry throat, but before long he found his arms growing heavy. It didn't bother him at all, but it made his paint strokes heavy and slow, so he gave it up for the afternoon and curled up on the couch in front of the television.

When Arthur got home, Eames barely registered the sound. He was drifting in a peaceful, drowsy state.

"I see you've been working hard," Arthur said with a smirk.

Eames lifted a hand. "Hey," he said sleepily.

"I do hope you caught my sarcasm."

"I did."

Arthur shrugged out of his coat and hung it up in the closet. "The snow's really coming down. They've already cancelled my classes for tomorrow, so it looks as though we're staying in."

Eames moved into a sitting position, a real feat for his heavy legs, so that Arthur could sit down next to him. "Sounds bloody brill."

Arthur curled up against Eames, head resting against his shoulder. "You're warm," he said contentedly.

Eames carded his fingers through Arthur's hair, slowly. He felt like he was moving in slow motion, and it was much more satisfying a feeling that one would think it would be. "I'm like a pussy cat. I get warm, and I fall asleep."

"Does that mean you're allergic to yourself?"

Eames snorted, pretending that he got what Arthur meant. A few minutes later he actually _did_ remember that he'd told Arthur he was allergic to cats.

Arthur pulled away then, eyes gleaming. "Let's fuck."

Eames laughed a little. "What?"

"Come on," Arthur whined, grabbing Eames by the wrists. "I can't believe you didn't say it first. I just told you that we're snowed in and my classes are cancelled. What more invitation do you need?"

"I'm sorry," Eames responded in mock-aggravation. "I just woke up from a nap. I'm still a little hazy."

Arthur huffed, releasing Eames's hands to cross his own over his chest. "What have you even done today to make you so tired?"

Eames went to point to the painting he'd worked on for a couple of hours only to realize that he hadn't made as much progress on it as he had thought.

"Eames?"

"Eh? What?" he blinked, turning back to Arthur. "Oh, sorry, I was just ah—"

"Staring into space?" Arthur asked with a quirk of a grin. "Jeez, Eames, did you sleep at all last night?"

Actually he had, but instead he said, "My stomach was a little upset last night."

That hadn't been a lie. The heroin often gave him stomach problems, and the night before had not been an exception. Still, he'd slept in that morning and made up for it.

"Oh," Arthur said.

Eames didn't know if it was a good thing to be happy that he believed it. It hadn't been a lie, not really.

"Well," Arthur said, dropping to his knees. "I guess I could give this a shot, right?"

Eames didn't know what he meant until Arthur was fumbling with Eames's belt. " _You're_ going to attempt to blow _me_?"

Arthur blushed, frowning. "What? I've watched you do it to me before."

"—but you've never done it to anyone."

"I'm not going to bite your dick off, if that's what you're thinking," Arthur grumbled. "Come on, I should, shouldn't I? I mean… we're together now. I can't just be the one who takes everything. We're equals in this, right?"

Eames could tell that Arthur was embarrassed, and he wondered if Arthur knew how stupidly cute he was when trying to hide it. He smiled, stroking Arthur's cheekbone, and laughed a little. "Perhaps you can be top next time."

If anything, Arthur turned redder. "Maybe…"

"Maybe," Eames agreed and leaned back as Arthur tilted his head downward toward Eames's prick. Arthur stroked him with his hands until he was hard, which took a little longer than usual, but neither seemed to notice or care. Arthur's fingers were shaking a little from nerves, and Eames just reached out and petted his hair to calm him.

"Arthur," he said, "it's all right if you don't want to do it. I won't be angry."

"It's not that I don't want to—I just… I've never done it before, and… I don't want to… do it wrong."

"You'll know if you're doing it right," Eames assured. "I'm sure you'll do just lovely. You've got a perfect mouth after all."

Arthur swallowed the knot in his throat and nodded.

"Just remember to breathe through your nose and don't panic."

Arthur exhaled through his nose as if to test it, knelt down, and tentatively took the head of Eames's prick into his mouth.

Eames grunted in the back of his throat, tensing a little. "That's it, love," he whispered.

Arthur lowered himself a little more, working his tongue the way he thought Eames did it to him, making little mewling noises around him. He bobbed his head and pulled back, eyes looking up at Eames for approval, clearly a little disturbed by how loud the noises seemed to be when he was the one doing them.

Eames sighed, head lolling back on the couch. Arthur wasn't doing so badly for his first try, Eames thought, even though he was clumsy and unsure. His fingers were bruising on Eames's inner thighs, holding on for dear life as he tried not to panic over the fact that he couldn't breathe around him.

"That's it, pet," Eames coaxed, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to keep some semblance of control over his body. He wanted desperately to buck into Arthur's heat but refrained as much as he could for the sake of the boy's throat.

No, no, Arthur wasn't a boy anymore. Arthur was a man. He was a young man, but a man nonetheless.

Arthur released Eames's thigh and palmed himself through his pants, groaning, and his voice vibrated all the way through Eames, causing him to make a similar sound.

Arthur was a damned fast learner, Eames thought frantically, gripping to the couch cushions. He'd be prouder if he wasn't so distracted by arousal and the heaviness of his limbs and the dry mouth and the hot, hot, _hot_ flush to his skin that made him feel like he was about to catch on fire.

"Oh, Arthur, Arthur," he purred, unable to say anything else while Arthur swirled his tongue around the head before diving back in, more confident than before. " _Fuck_ , Arthur— _Jesus_."

Eames's hips jumped against Eames's will, and Arthur gagged as he took in too much too fast. He pulled off, coughing and gasping for air.

"S—sorry," he stammered, voice rough, and Eames couldn't even tell him to stop apologizing when he had such a delectably swollen mouth and ruddy cheeks and eyes black with arousal.

Arthur held down Eames's hips and went back down, and Eames moaned, "Oh, you're a trooper, love."

From that point, Eames couldn't hold out much longer, and after Arthur took him down a couple more times, Eames was tugging at Arthur's hair as a warning since his mouth was so dry he could no longer speak. His heart beat didn't know what to do with the heroin trying to slow it down and Arthur trying to speed it up, and it made him dizzy.

Arthur didn't take the hint and made a surprised noise when Eames spilled into his mouth with a shuddering yell.

Arthur pulled away in a panic and almost banged his head on the coffee table as he leaned back. There was a stream of come at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes were watering, but he'd apparently swallowed it because he was gasping for air, chest heaving.

Eames pulled himself off the couch and kissed Arthur's swollen mouth, licking away the come and palming Arthur's neglected prick. Arthur arched into his touch, arms wrapped around Eames's shoulders, and he couldn't seem to talk either, gaping soundlessly as he came after only a few good strokes.

Both of them just held still for a moment, breathing each other's air, and then Arthur seemed to find his voice. "A little warning… next time… would be nice…"

"I was pulling your hair for a reason," Eames replied back, dropping his forehead to Arthur's shoulder, and his voice was so haggard he barely recognized it.

"Do that more often…" Arthur said. "I like it… and word warnings… please… Ugh… I didn't know that shit… tasted so bad…"

Eames laughed, muffled against Arthur's sweater. "It's an acquired taste, I guess."

Arthur chuckled a little, unfolding himself from Eames and getting to his feet, hoisting Eames up with him. "I need a shower," he said. "Come with me?"

"Of course."

After they fucked in the shower, they moved to the bed to fuck, and after that they were both completely spent. Arthur was snoring loudly next to Eames, sprawled out in a less than graceful position, drool sliding out from the corner of his mouth pressed to the pillow and Eames sketched a picture of him that way just for his own personal amusement.

His wakefulness drifted back into drowsiness as he was finishing the drawing, and he sunk down into the mattress, tossing the sketchbook on the floor. He was just drifting off when a loud ring from the next room shook both of them awake.

"My phone—" Arthur said blearily, reaching blindly around the bedside table even though it clearly wasn't there. "My… fuck it, they'll call back later," he mumbled and curled up against Eames's body to capture some of his warmth.

Eames kissed the top of his head and stared at the wall until he fell asleep.

* * *

It was early morning when Arthur awoke, rubbing sleep from his eyes with his fist. Eames was still sleeping beside him, and Arthur felt somehow uncomfortable by the way his breathing was so slow and quiet. He wondered if maybe that was how Eames always slept, decided that it must have been.

Arthur crawled out from under the covers and shivered as soon as the air hit him. It was too cold, Arthur thought, grabbing one of Eames's shirts off the pile in the floor and pulling it over his shoulders. It smelled like him.

After Arthur adjusted the thermostat, he went and found his clothes in the bathroom floor, digging out his cell phone from the pocket. He had a missed call from Robert.

Arthur dialed him and waited. On the fourth ring, he picked up. "H'lo?" he asked blearily.

"You called me?" Arthur asked, padding into the kitchen to make coffee.

"Yeah, yesterday," Robert replied irritably. "Jeez, Arthur, we got the day off and you're still up at seven?"

"I went to bed kind of early last night," Arthur replied, starting the coffee maker and grabbing two mugs out of the cupboard. "Sorry. I didn't realize it was so early. Should I call back later?"

"Nah, nah, forget it," Robert said, and Arthur imagined he was propping himself up on his elbow and scratching his head. "I'm up now. You know I can't go back to sleep after I'm up."

"No, I didn't know that."

Robert paused, sniffed, and said, "Sorry. Forgot who I was talking to for a second. Yeah, I'm like one of those people. Anyway, I figured since we had the day off, maybe we could meet up at the Starbucks and prepare that group project. If we get a head start on it, I think we could finish it early and then have more time to study for finals so we can dick around all Christmas break."

"Ah…" Arthur said, pouring a cup of coffee and spotting Eames leaving the bedroom out of the corner of his eye. "…um… yeah, I guess I can do that. Do you think it'll be open with all the snow? Can you get there without any issue?"

"The streets are slick, but if you drive slowly, you'll be fine. Starbucks is open, man, seriously. They wouldn't be dumb enough to close down when everyone wants warm drinks, right?"

"I don't know," Arthur said, holding the phone up with his shoulder as he carried both coffee cups to the kitchen table and set them down. "Well, I mean, let's wait until a little later. I'll call you around ten, eleven, something like that."

"Whatever," Robert sighed, and Arthur was sure he'd laid back down to go back to sleep. _Once I'm up, I'm up—my ass_ , Arthur thought, smirking. "Sure. Yeah. Talk to you then, I guess."

"Bye."

Robert hung up.

"Who was that?" Eames asked, hunched over his coffee, still looking mostly asleep. "Nice shirt, by the way."

Arthur smiled, lifting the cup to his lips. "It was Robert. He and I are working on a project for class, and he wanted to meet up and work on it today since we have some free time."

"Sounds like fun," Eames said, sipping at the cup and grimacing for a moment. He wandered over to the counter and grabbed the sugar, dumping a few teaspoons into his glass and stirring.

"Sorry," Arthur said sheepishly. "I didn't know how you liked your coffee…"

"It's all right. You'll learn," Eames replied, smiling after his second sip. "So, you're going to do this project with your friend, hm? Where are you meeting?"

"Starbucks," Arthur shrugged.

"Oh, lovely," Eames replied, gaze brightening a little, and Arthur didn't realize how much Eames's sleepy gaze had been bothering him until it was gone. "I'll come with you. I want to hang some of my paintings up there, see if I can sell them. Is that all right?"

"Why wouldn't it be?" Arthur asked.

"You said you wanted to keep your personal life personal. Odds are I'll be meeting your friend, right? You don't mind that?"

Arthur looked down into his cup, smiling softly. "I don't mind… You and me, we're together now. I don't have to hide you, so why should I?"

Eames leaned over the table, wrapping his fingers around the back of Arthur's neck, and kissed him. Arthur sighed pleasurably when Eames pulled away. "I always enjoy a little sugar with my coffee," Eames teased.

"God, you're so fucking _cheesy_ ," Arthur laughed and pulled him back in for another kiss. "I've got a little bit of time before I have to call Robert back."

"I'll meet you back in the bedroom then," Eames replied, hopping to his feet. "Oh, and… wear the shirt."

Arthur grunted, laughing.

* * *

The Starbucks was open, but there weren't many people there. Arthur preferred having more space anyway.

Robert was waiting outside, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his pea-coat.

"Jesus, that's _him_?" Eames asked quietly as Arthur pulled in the parking lot. "He looks like a fucking GQ model."

"I know," Arthur laughed. "He said the same thing about me when I wore a suit to his birthday party. He's a rich asshole like me, so it was a black tie affair kind of thing."

"I'd like to see you in a suit," Eames said, shutting the door after getting out and then opening the back door to grab his paintings out of the backseat, "but preferably out of one."

Arthur snickered, shutting his own door and waving to Robert.

Robert quirked an eyebrow at Eames as the two of them approached, Eames carrying a painting in each hand.

"Hey," Arthur greeted, and Eames could tell that he was just a little nervous.

"Who's your friend?" Robert asked, appraising Eames unsurely.

Eames leaned one of the paintings against the wall of the building and held out his hand to shake. "I'm Eames," he said.

Robert shook the hand hesitantly. "Nice to meet you…"

"Ah, Robert? This um…" Arthur said awkwardly, crossing his arms over his chest to keep warm in the sudden gust of snowy wind that blew by. "This is my boyfriend."

" _Oh_ ," Robert said, both eyebrows raising on his forehead. "You didn't tell me you had a boyfriend, Arthur."

"We hadn't really _defined_ our relationship until recently," Eames supplied, opening the door to the tinkle of a little bell. "Let's go inside, right? It's bloody cold."

Arthur grabbed Eames's other painting and followed him in, and Robert tailed behind. Eames couldn't help but think that Robert was the definition of _priss_ with the way that he walked—shoulders back, nose held high in the air, taking long strides with his legs. He did strike Eames as a little bitchy, but Arthur was right about one thing… he was absolutely beautiful.

…not Eames's _type_ , but beautiful.

Arthur and Robert ordered drinks and found a place in the corner to talk, while Eames sought out the manager of the place.

"Can I help you?" the manager asked. She was a tiny girl with dyed purple hair and a nose ring and didn't seem to want to be there. Something about her reminded him of Ariadne though, and he wondered where she'd gone off to after the restaurant shut down.

"Ah, hello there," Eames said with a smile, amping up the English charm. "I was wondering if you would mind hanging some of my paintings up in your establishment. I'm trying to sell them, see, and I'll give this place a cut of the profit if they sell.

The girl grabbed one of the paintings and held it up, squinting at it. "Whoa, dude… this is cool," she said with a grin. "It's very post-apocalyptic meltdown. I dig it."

Eames had painted that one on a particularly bad day, heroin thrumming through his veins nearly non-stop. It had turned out to be a destroyed city with a body in the middle, undistinguishable in identity in the rubble but clearly there, ghost white hand sprawled out as if reaching for something.

"I can't hang this thing up here, man. It's so cool, but I'm worried it might scare some of those over-religious types that come in here sometimes. I'll buy it though. It's awesome. It'd look really wicked in my apartment."

"Really?" Eames asked excitedly. "That's ace! I'll sell it to you for two hundred."

She pursed her lips, thinking, and then said, "Could I convince you to give it to me for one-seventy-five?"

Eames paused, calculating. "Sure, what the hell," Eames shrugged. "It's yours."

"Epic win," she said, grinning ear to ear. "If you come back by tomorrow, I'll have the cash, all right? I'd go get it right now, but I'm kind of on the clock. Is that cool?"

"Sure," Eames said. "I'll keep the painting in my car for safe keeping of course—"

"No, dude, I totally get it."

After a little bit of conversation, the painting he'd done of sunflowers was hung up between the two bathroom doors. He didn't particularly like the picture and had done it on an extremely hot day, but Arthur had liked it so he decided it must have been worth something.

Meanwhile, in the corner, Arthur discovered that Robert was no longer interested in their project at all.

"So, he's the guy, huh? The one you've been sleeping with?" he asked, as soon as they sat down.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Yeah, and?"

Robert leaned out to eye Eames from across the room before pulling back to their squashed space. "He's kind of _old_ , isn't he?"

"He's not that old," Arthur huffed. "He's only twenty-seven."

Robert grinned his slasher smile again after a moment. "Oh, my God. That's so scandalous. You said you were together in high school, but he's way too old to have gone to school with you. Were you _jailbait_?"

Arthur tried to look offended, but he was pretty sure he only came across as shocked and embarrassed because he was burning bright red. Robert cackled, covering his mouth with his hand. "Jesus Christ, you _were_ , weren't you! Out of all the gay guys I know, you were the one I least expected to—"

"Would you keep it down?" Arthur hissed, and Robert lowered his laughter to a snicker. "It's complicated, okay?"

"You must be really serious about him if you guys are still together even now."

"Well," Arthur said, wrapping his hands around his cup of coffee to occupy himself a little, "we haven't really been together the whole time. You know that… We just reunited by chance, and we realized that our feelings were still there, so… we're together. That's about it."

"Have you told your mom yet?"

"Well, no… She didn't know about him before, and I don't want her getting any ideas about what I was up to back then… I mean, yeah, I intend to introduce them _eventually_ , but… well…"

"You having second thoughts?" Robert asked, and the look on his face was unreadable.

"Wh—No! Why would I—Why would you think that?" Arthur stammered, and he didn't know why he was uncomfortable.

Robert shrugged. "I don't know. I had second thoughts about him the moment you introduced him."

"You haven't even known him long enough to have first thoughts about him."

"Something doesn't sit right with me about him. Something in his look…"

"What, you don't think he's attractive so I shouldn't date him? That seems kind of dumb."

"That's not what I meant," Robert replied, and now he was completely serious. "It's not that he's unattractive. That's not it at all. No, he's got really great bone structure and all that jazz, but he…" he hesitated, searching for the right words, "he doesn't look _well_. Something about him looks unwell to me."

Arthur glanced over at Eames who seemed to be working his charms on the mousy manager. He didn't look _unwell_ , Arthur thought with a huff. Sure, he was a little thinner than he had been in the past, and he was a little paler, and his eyes were a little sunken and unfocused…

Well, maybe he did…

"It's _winter_ ," Arthur replied, unreasonably angry. "Most people look kinda sick and stuff during the winter. We can't all look like models, you know."

Robert shrugged, sipping at his coffee. "Whatever, Arthur. I was just saying. What do I know?"

"Can we just focus on our project please?" Arthur asked. He sounded more exasperated and pleading than annoyed. "If you want to badmouth my boyfriend, you can do it with your other friends."

"So, you must love him something pretty fierce," Robert said, looking out the window rather than at Arthur.

"I do."

"Just don't come running to me when he fucks you over."

Robert really could be a bitch sometimes.


	3. Grace Under Pressure (3/10)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. **Sequel to _Bite Hard_**. Arthur reunites with Eames. By the next day, they're living together. Still, with the two of them, there's always the opportunity for things to get _complicated_.

Part Three

After two long rounds of sex, Arthur found himself curled up in bed with Eames doodling in his sketchbook next to him. Arthur glanced at his boyfriend and then looked back at the ceiling, swallowing.

It had been two days since Robert had said what he'd said, and Arthur had shoved it off as nonsense… and yet… here he was, thinking about it even still. Eames had some strange quirks he hadn't had before, but Arthur kept trying to convince himself that he and Eames really hadn't spent much time together when he was younger, so of course he'd find out things about him that he didn't notice before.

…but thinking that only made things worse… Realizing that they really _hadn't_ spent much time together in the past, it made Arthur think that perhaps he'd been a little too overzealous in having Eames move in with him like they'd been together for years.

He loved Eames. He _loved_ him. He kept reminding himself of this to try to calm his nerves.

It was… sort of working. Sort of.

"Eames?" Arthur said, slowly, "Um… I just thought you should know that when we weren't together, I had other boyfriends. We never had sex, but I did have other relationships."

"Okay," Eames said, looking mildly confused. "It's not like I told you to wait for me or anything. Is that what you've been worrying about for the last few days?"

He'd noticed. Of course he'd noticed. "Well," Arthur continued, clenching and unclenching his hands, "I just thought that, since we're a couple and we're living together, I thought we should have no secrets between us. I didn't want you to find any pictures of me with my exes and get the wrong idea is all."

"Oh," Eames said, nodded, and smiled, "All right then. Don't worry about that, Arthur. I trust you."

"Thanks," Arthur replied unsurely. "So… is there anything you'd like to tell me?"

Eames seemed to really think about it for a few minutes and then said, "No, not really. I had a few blow jobs from some other blokes, but I didn't have any legitimate relationships."

"Okay, then…" Arthur mumbled, rolling on his side and planting a kiss against Eames's thigh.

It didn't clear up a single lingering doubt.

…but Eames wouldn't lie to him. Surely, he wouldn't.

* * *

Eames felt guilty for not telling Arthur about the smack, but he convinced himself that it was for the best. Their relationship was going fabulously, and he didn't want to fight. Fighting made him feel like shit, and when he felt like shit, he used more often. As it was, he was only shooting up once every two days or so, maybe twice, and he never did it when Arthur was there.

Still, the guilt ate at him, and when he ended up painting something entirely too brown and unable to fix it, he broke he shot up twice in the same day.

 _No big deal_ , he had told himself as he plunged the needle into his vein. After all, it was only one time. He'd done it more often in the past.

"Eames?"

Eames jumped, snapping the tourniquet off of his arm and shoving it into his nail kit with everything else, zipping it up and stashing it under the sink. He pulled his sleeve down and, just as he was reaching for the knob of the bathroom door, was bowled over with a rush of euphoria so strong he thought he might black out.

"Where are you?" Arthur's voice called from down the hall.

Eames washed his face in the sink before leaving the bathroom to meet Arthur, smiling. "You're back early," Eames said.

"Robert and I finished the project," Arthur explained. "I brought sushi."

"Oh… lovely, splendid," Eames said and did his best to sound so, even though the idea of eating disgusted him. He kissed Arthur on the cheek on the way to the kitchen table and ate timidly while he listen to Arthur go on about what he and Robert had been doing. He only gave small responses because he was sure his words were slurring, and thankfully that was all Arthur needed to continue with his thoughts and theories.

They were both about halfway through their second rolls when Arthur paused. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"Why?" Eames asked, nodding furiously or at least attempting to.

"You don't look so good. You're flushed."

"Oh… Fine. I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" Arthur asked, reaching out to touch Eames's face. "Is it too warm in here or something? I can turn the heat down—"

Eames had to get up then and only managed to make it to the sink before he puked.

"Eames!" Arthur shouted, jumping to his feet. It was only Arthur behind him that kept him from slumping to the floor, Eames was sure of that. "Jesus, what—"

"Is that shellfish?" Eames asked hazily. "I'm allergic to shellfish."

It was a lie, and Arthur believed it completely, apologizing over and over again while Eames told him it was fine because it wasn't like he knew and that he himself should have asked before eating it.

…and the guilt ate at him, so he shot up the next day too, while Arthur was asleep.

* * *

Arthur's Christmas break arrived, and the night after his last final, he and Eames had a celebratory fuck.

"So," Arthur said, allowing Eames to roll off of him onto his side. "I uh… was planning on heading down to the cabin to spend Christmas with Cobb and Mal and my mom."

"That sounds fun," Eames said sleepily, nosing at Arthur's neck.

Arthur nodded, a bit nervous, and said, "I uh… I want you to come with me."

Eames hoisted himself up with one of his arms. "For Christmas?... Of course, I'd love to, but I don't want to impose—"

Arthur shook his head. "No, I want you to come. You won't be imposing. You're my boyfriend now. I want you to meet my friends and family."

Eames smiled, knelt down, and kissed Arthur's nose. "Then, I'd love to meet them."

Arthur was beaming. "Great… Uh… well, I intended to head down there two days from now, and we usually stay about a week… so…"

"You don't have to give me so much notice," Eames laughed, lying down on Arthur's chest. "As an artist I set my own hours." Eames actually was quite pleased with the notice however because his stash was running a little low, and that meant he'd be able to buy enough to last him the week.

…not that he _needed_ it to get through the week…

"If it's okay, though… I thought maybe we could call you Thomas—you know, instead of Eames."

"Why?" Eames asked, tracing circles along Arthur's ribs. "Think your family needs to know we're on a first name basis or else they'll assume I'm a prostitute you hired to make you look better?"

"That sounds like the plot to a terrible movie," Arthur said flatly, but a corner of his mouth had turned up in a smirk. "No, it's just that… Well, Cobb and Mal know about _Eames_ , the twenty-two year old I screwed around with when I was statutory. If they find out we're back together, I'm not really sure how they'll react, and I don't want to cause any unnecessary stress on the holidays."

"I'm sure if they're as wonderful as you keep saying they are, then you wouldn't have any sort of problem, but that's fine. I'll be your very-very-good-friend-Thomas, and we'll see if they can figure out what you mean by that." He kissed down to Arthur's navel and smiled against the skin. "Ready for another round?"

* * *

Eames went to visit Vince the next day.

"Didn't expect to see you so soon," Vince mentioned when he pulled open his front door. Eames had driven the motorcycle that day, despite the chill, so that he wouldn't have to come up with some excuse to a cab driver or Arthur.

"I'm heading out of town for the holidays," Eames said, stepping inside the dank, smelling foyer. "Can you hook me up?"

"It just isn't Christmas without snow," Vince agreed and led Eames around the stairs to a room in the back that had the door wide open.

There was a girl in Vince's bed, which was really only a mattress tossed in the corner, and she seemed to be unconscious, breathing shallowly. It made Eames uncomfortable, so he did his best not to look at her.

"Okay," Vince said, digging through his closet until he produced a rather hefty amount of smack in a palm-sized, black plastic bag. "Think this'll satisfy you?"

Eames weighed it in his hand and nodded slowly before shoving it into the chest pocket of his coat. "How much?" he asked, digging out his wallet.

Vince pulled out a pocket-sized notebook and jotted down some numbers, doing a little math, and Eames still thought that Vince was highballing him, but he emptied his wallet anyway and left with satisfaction.

As he turned to leave, he caught sight of the girl, stirring a little, and he noticed a needle stuck into her arm. She'd just _left_ it.

He shivered and excused himself and couldn't get out of the place fast enough. As he took off on his bike, he could feel the pouch of heroin pressed against his chest, so close to his heart he imagined it eating through the fabric, through the skin, through all of him until it formed a hole on the other side.

It was a terrifyingly fantastic thought that would not leave him alone for the entire drive back to Arthur's, and when he got back, he painted the imagery as clear as it flashed in his brain, blurring at the edges, bloody and violent and charred.

Once he was finished, Eames lay down on the couch and slept, and his dreams were too dark to see.

* * *

"Well, that's… disturbing."

Eames blinked, slowly unfurling from his sleep to find Arthur staring at the painting with a cigarette dangling between his fingers.

"Where'd you run off to?" Eames asked so that Arthur wouldn't ask him.

"I went to get a new suitcase. The one I have has a broken zipper on it. I bought one for you too." He stepped away from the painting, taking a long drag on the cigarette, and Eames couldn't help but notice that Arthur's teeth were yellower than they used to be. "Let's see, what else did I get… uh… I got some batteries for my cameras, the video camera and my Nikon… uh…" he dug in the bag he had thrown onto the counter. "Oh, I got more cigarettes and beer, and I bought some presents for Cobb and Mal and Mom." Arthur proceeded to show Eames the presents: a sweater for his mother, a picture frame for Cobb, and an ornament for Mal's tree (according to Arthur, it was a tradition for him to buy her ornaments).

"The store wasn't too much of a madhouse, was it?" Eames asked, getting to his feet and making sure he was steady before moving.

"You have _no_ idea," Arthur groaned in annoyance. "I really should have done all this sooner. Fuck, I say that every year but never learn."

Eames kneaded Arthur's shoulders, causing him to instantly relax into his touch. "I should have gone with you," Eames said. "I'm pretty good at barreling through people."

"It's all right," Arthur sighed, eyes slipping shut as his head rolled around on his neck like Eames had loosened his hinges. "Where were you, anyway?"

"I just wanted to take the bike for a drive before we left. It's not good to just leave it, you know."

"Oh, yeah, I guess that's true," Arthur mumbled, and Eames moved his hands lower down on Arthur's back.

"That mall really did a number on your nerves, darling," Eames said against the shell of Arthur's ear. "You're stiff."

"Not yet," Arthur replied right on cue as Eames slipped one hand around to Arthur's front, palming him through his clothes. Arthur's hand came up to the back of Eames's neck as Eames layered kisses at the back of Arthur's jaw, and he sighed.

Then, Arthur said, "I also bought some condoms."

"Why?" Eames asked, never ceasing in his stroking or kissing.

"If they all come to the conclusion that we're— _oh_ —having sex, and they _will_ , I don't want anyone— _ahh_ —lecturing me about— _mm_ —safe sex."

"You worry too much," Eames said.

"One of us has to worry about things," Arthur replied with a smirk, but then Eames touched him just right and he was lost, arching into his touch.

"So prepared," Eames badgered playfully.

Arthur let it be at that, let Eames push him up against the table and fuck him slowly until he was unintelligible. He didn't tell Eames that he was still uncomfortable with the idea of fucking without protection or that he was worried about Eames's weight or that the painting he'd done while Arthur had been gone nearly made him sick with some unprovoked horror.

He didn't say anything because he just wanted things to be _good_.

 _So much for not having any secrets_ , Arthur thought bitterly and came all over Eames's fist.

* * *

The next morning, after the two of them showered together, Arthur checked his luggage one final time and then hauled it out to the car. Eames followed suit with his own.

Arthur had laughed at Eames when he'd gotten dressed that morning because the man had put on a suit, a _suit_. It was a charcoal color with a jade shirt beneath it, and while he looked fantastic in it, Arthur thought it was a bit much.

"I want to look nice when I meet your mum," Eames had said then, and then Arthur couldn't tease him anymore. Eames had even shaved.

In the end, Arthur had decided to wear a suit too because Cobb always wore one, and really Arthur was the one who looked ridiculous in the photos in his witty-saying t-shirts. He wore a red shirt and couldn't help but snort at the way they'd dressed in Christmas colors.

As Arthur made the slow trek through the traffic-heavy city streets, Eames chain-smoked and stared out the window, mumbling with the songs on the radio that he recognized.

"Are you nervous?" Arthur asked with a little grin.

"Me? _Nervous_? That's bollocks!" Eames laughed, but there was a twinge of hysteria there that revealed he clearly was.

"Technically you've met my mother before," Arthur reminded, adjusting his glasses.

"She was drunk off her arse in the restaurant I used to work at five years ago. I don't think that counts."

Arthur grabbed Eames's cigarette and took a long drag on it himself before handing it back. "She liked you then, even when she was wasted. She'll like you now too. She's extremely supportive of me."

"What if she thinks I'm obnoxious?"

Arthur couldn't help but laugh at that. "Um, hello, do you remember who she was married to? She's going to _love_ you, Eames. I'm sure of it. Just be yourself. You're not obnoxious at all."

Eames leaned back in his chair, trying to appear more relaxed, but Arthur wasn't fooled. He turned up the Christmas music and sang along the rest of the drive to his mother home.

Eames went back to looking out the window, bouncing his leg and chewing on his lip. He regretted not shooting up before leaving, but there was literally no opportunity with Arthur around. He'd meant to get up early and do it before Arthur woke up, but he slept off his last dose and ended up waking to find Arthur already ready to go (of course, he did change into a suit after Eames did, and he looked lovely in it). He wouldn't have been quite so anxious about everything with the smack to calm his heart rate… but it wasn't like he could do anything about it now, so he tried not to think about it.

When Arthur pulled up to the house, Eames marveled at how much smaller it was than the house Arthur had lived in as a teenager.

"It was my father who bought that place," Arthur said with a roll of his eyes. "He hated giving his money to other people, but he loved showing off how much he had. Who really needs that much living space? There were rooms I still hadn't seen in that fucking place even after the two of us left. This is all we needed."

"I like it," Eames said with a nod. "It seems homey. It suits you better than that blasted mansion anyways. Maybe you and I can live in a house like this one day."

"Maybe," Arthur said with a smile as he turned off the car. "Well, come on."

Eames followed, looking over his shoulder out of paranoid habit. Arthur had a key to the house, so they didn't have to wait on the porch.

Inside, more Christmas music lilted through the air and it was warm and cozy and all around _comfortable_. Eames liked the place instantly.

"Hello?" Arthur called out, swinging his keys around his finger before grasping them in his fist. "Mom?"

"I'm up here, baby!" her voice called from up the stairs, "I'm just finishing packing!"

Arthur tromped up the steps and Eames followed him still, albeit hesitantly. "We're only going to be there for a week. You don't have to pack your whole closet," Arthur joked, confidently strolling the hall he was so familiar with. Eames noticed one door had a plaque with Arthur's name on it nailed to the outside and itched to go see what was there.

"I'm not packing my whole closet," Arthur's mother said as Arthur entered the room, and from behind him, Eames could see her sitting on the suitcase in an effort to get it shut. "I'm just trying to get everything in one bag."

She looked surprisingly younger than she had last time Eames had seen her, no longer bogged down by stress, alcohol, loneliness, and too much make-up. Her hair shined with more luster and her skin was brighter and she was like sunshine in her pale yellow sweater. She was just _beautiful_.

She was _beautiful_ , just like Arthur.

Arthur leaned over and snapped the suitcase shut and helped her off of it with a grunt. "Nicely done," he said. "Should I applaud?"

She playfully smacked his shoulder, and that was when she noticed Eames still lingering unsurely in the doorway. "Hi," she said, wearing a look that was a mix of confusion and delight. Her voice was clear and bell-like without all of the booze slurring it and weighing it down.

"Ah… hello," Eames said, holding out his hand to shake. He knew he turned red in embarrassment when it trembled. "I'm Thomas, a… a good friend of your son's."

"A _friend_ , huh?" she asked, voice just hinting at skepticism, and Eames saw Arthur blush too. "Nice to meet you, Thomas. Arthur, you should have told me you were bringing a friend."

"I wasn't sure if he was going to be able to come until just a couple of days ago," Arthur said sheepishly, and Eames felt himself instantly relaxing.

"What, you don't have a cell phone?" she asked, mock-offended. "Whatever. Let's get going before the weather gets bad. Mr. Thomas, I do hope you intend to tell me all about yourself."

"What do you want to know, exactly?" Eames asked, lifting her suitcase for her and carrying it down the stairs at the back of the line.

"Oh, you know, the basics," she said, grabbing her coat off of the hook by the door, tugging her hat over her head, and tossing her scarf around her neck. "Age, occupation, sexual orientation—and whatever else you'd like to say, I guess."

"Ah, well…" Eames said, careful not to slip on the ice on the walkway as he carried her bag to the car. He paused only momentarily to scrunch his nose up at Arthur who was grinning like an idiot. "Well, ah—I'm twenty-seven, and I'm an artist. I'm a painter, um… I'm technically bi-sexual, I guess… but I never really put a label on it."

"Weird how you and Arthur are _friends_ then, since he likes to label everything," she said, crawling into the driver's seat as though she and Arthur had already made the decision that she would be driving. Eames took the backseat so that Arthur could sit next to her. "How'd you guys meet?"

They looked at each other for a second.

"In a club," Eames said, and it felt good to tell the truth. "He quite literally ran into me there."

She nodded, starting the car. "Is that so? Arthur, I thought you said you didn't like going to the club that much."

"I don't really," Arthur shrugged. "I was dragged into it, but I actually had a good time."

"Arthur's a dancing fool," Eames laughed, and Arthur's mother laughed too. "After a few shots of tequila, he's loosey-goosey."

"Oh, shut the hell up," Arthur grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. "Stop teasing how I dance. You don't dance any better."

"Who said I was talking about dancing?" Eames asked, raising his eyebrows, and Arthur's mom burst out laughing.

"Oh _snap_!" she said, slapping the steering wheel for effect.

Arthur was as red as his shirt, trying and failing to fight back a smile.

"We met up again," Eames continued when the laughter had died down, "at a Starbucks not too long ago, and we've been inseparable ever since."

He left the fact that they'd been living together unsaid for Arthur's sake. He didn't want his mother to believe Arthur was so quick to jump into bed with him (even if he sort of _was_ ).

"Well, that's good. Arthur was always such a loner when he was younger. It's nice to see he has such good friends nowadays."

Eames decided immediately that he liked Arthur's mother. He liked her a lot.

"Well, I'll be meeting the much talked about Mr. and Mrs. Cobb, so I hope I won't be left in the dust."

"It's okay," she laughed, glancing at him through the rearview mirror. "If he abandons you, you can come hang out with me. We'll have an awesome time, and you can teach me British slang."

"Well, that sounds right _ace_ , mum. We'll dress dapper and go chat up some cracking blokes. It'll be bloody brilliant, it will," Eames replied, amping his English accent up to eleven.

"Bloody brilliant!" she replied, impersonating him.

"—and Arthur will be nobby no-mates."

"Hilarious," Arthur said flatly, but he'd already given up battling his smile. His dimples were there, and Eames brushed the pad of his index finger across the one closest to him. "Keep in mind that we've got a six hour drive ahead of us. If you fall asleep, I _will_ draw a penis on your face."

"So cruel."

"It's okay, Thomas, I'll protect you," Arthur's mom said.

"Thank you, Miss Arthur's Mom."

"Please, call me Olivia."

"Olivia," Eames corrected himself. "Arthur and Olivia. That has a splendid ring to it."

"Yeah, but Thomas doesn't really suit you, you know? It's too _proper_ ," she said, and she imitated his accent again when she said the last word.

"My middle name is Reginald. How's _that_ for _proper_?"

Arthur snorted. "Are you _serious_?"

"Sad but true," Eames said with a shrug.

"Your parents were so unkind to you," she said with a sigh. "Thomas Reginald—"

"Eames," he supplied immediately, unable to stop himself.

Arthur's eyes only widened a little, but his mother didn't notice.

"Thomas Reginald Eames. That's _terrible_!"

"I know," Eames laughed, placing a hand on Arthur's shoulder and squeezing it to let him know not to worry about it.

"Well… at least _Eames_ suits you," Olivia nodded.

"Most people call me that actually," Eames admitted, and he realized that Arthur had unconsciously slipped his hand on top of Eames's, nervous and squeezing.

Olivia glanced at the two of them, seeming to notice Arthur's hand at the same time Eames did. She just let a corner of her mouth turn upwards and looked back at the road and started singing with the radio.

" _Sleigh bells ring, are ya' listenin'? In the lanes, snow is glistenin'… a beautiful sight, we're happy tonight, walkin' in a winter wonderland…_ "


	4. Grace Under Pressure (4/10)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. **Sequel to _Bite Hard_**. Arthur reunites with Eames. By the next day, they're living together. Still, with the two of them, there's always the opportunity for things to get _complicated_.

Part Four

The first hour of the drive consisted of delighted conversations followed by short stretches of companionable silence and singing. He learned a lot about Arthur as a child before Olivia's drinking got bad. Arthur didn't seem to mind the slightly embarrassing stories, and Eames could tell it was because he could appreciate the sense of normalcy that the stories brought with them. Eames was delighted to listen about how Arthur had wandered off when he was younger and been missing for an entire afternoon only to be found at his friend Kayla's house.

"Kayla was my first real friend, and then she moved away," Arthur said, sighing.

"She used to beat you up," Olivia laughed.

Arthur blushed when Eames laughed too and explained, "She was bigger than me! Girls mature faster than boys, you know…" but really it was a terrible explanation that just made it funnier.

"Ooh, I love this song!" Olivia exclaimed, turning up the radio as Mariah Carey's voice started in on "All I Want for Christmas is You."

Yes, Eames was delighted because Arthur was delighted. Arthur wasn't some miserable boy hiding in the shadow of his father's piles of money but a regular guy with a single mom who was a blast to hang out with. Clearly, Arthur had gotten over any sort of grudge the two of them had had because they were tight knit, like best friends. Eames was envious of that kind of relationship with his family, but he hadn't spoken to either parent since they cut him off all those years ago.

That brought down his mood a little, thinking of that. Those thoughts inevitably led back to Roxanne. He no longer had feelings for Roxanne, not even a little, not when he had Arthur, but she was still a part of him. Eames was disgusted with himself for ever falling under her spell when she had clearly been using him from the beginning. She'd nearly ruined him with the drugs and hatred. Even now, she was still ruining him with it—

That… wasn't what he meant.

He wasn't ruined by anything now. Things were different now.

He shot up way more often back then… didn't he?

He honestly couldn't remember how often he'd done it back then.

…and then he was thinking about the heroin, and that immediately started to make him crave it.

He did his best to ignore it and laughed while Olivia sang very off-key to the high notes of the song.

"You're embarrassing me!" Arthur explained, but his eyes were watering because he was holding back so much laughter.

"Babe, the only one being embarrassed here is _me_ ," she replied, "if I wanted to embarrass _you_ , I'd start telling Mr. Thomas Reginald Eames here stories about your ass."

"I already know all about Arthur's arse," Eames replied, and clearly the attempt to humiliate had been achieved.

"Me too," she exclaimed and high-fived Eames.

Arthur buried his face in his hands in mortification, ears glowing red, and Eames rubbed his shoulder affectionately.

"You're really playing off as my _friend_ , Eames, really," Arthur mumbled sarcastically.

In response Eames hooked the same hand he'd rubbed his shoulder with around the back of Arthur's neck and pulled him into a deep and sudden kiss. Arthur was left stammering when it was over while his mother howled out in excitement. Eames sighed as if he had just taken a swallow of a refreshing drink.

" _Eames_ ," Arthur squealed, so Eames ruffled his hair.

"Oh, Arthur, hush," Olivia chuckled. "It was just a little kiss. He didn't even use tongue."

" _Mom_!"

If anything, Arthur's voice had raised another half-octave.

* * *

On the second hour of the drive, conversation had died out in favor of staring at the scenery.

Eames preferred to look down into his lap, trying to bore holes into his knees. Without anything to say or respond to, he'd been left with his thoughts, and his craving had intensified tenfold.

The radio station had died out, not even allowing him a song to distract him.

He smoked the last two of his cigarettes and tried to focus on his breathing.

"Everyone doing okay?" Olivia asked entirely too cheerfully for Eames's taste. "Anyone need to get out and stretch their legs soon?"

"I think I can manage a little longer," Arthur said, aiming his camera and clicking away at the passing scenery. Eames was grateful that Arthur was so distracted by the snowy grasslands so he didn't notice how Eames's arms had broken out in goosebumps and how his hands had started to tremble. He didn't want Arthur to realize that he was starting to feel like absolute shit, that he was feeling clogged up and feverish and miserable.

 _You can handle this_ , he told himself, ringing his hands. _You're not an addict. You don't need it._

That argument wasn't really helping.

"Mr. Eames?" Olivia asked, smiling at him over her shoulder for a moment. He looked out the window in the hopes that she couldn't tell he wasn't well.

"I need to use the toilet," Eames said. It came out more agitated than he'd intended.

"No problem," she said with a fading smile, turning her eyes back to the road. "Can you hold it for a half hour? We'll reach civilization then."

Eames figured that he would have to.

He felt like the only warm spot in his entire body was on his chest, where the pouch of heroin sat hidden inside his pocket. He shoved his hand into one of the side pockets and fiddled with the zipper of his nail kit.

 _I can handle this. Just thirty more minutes_.

* * *

Thirty minutes turned into an hour and a half.

There was a semi-truck wrecked on the road. He'd apparently driven too quickly over some ice and spun out of control. Some cars had slammed into him but surprisingly everyone had come out unscathed.

Still, traffic had backed up for miles, leaving them stuck still amongst the sounds of car horns sounding uselessly.

The horns were really starting to grate on Eames's nerves.

He sat there with his arms folded across his chest, grinding his teeth, bouncing his leg, and he thought he might be sick. His whole body ached, and his eyes were watering, and had broken out in a cold sweat.

"Ugh…" Olivia groaned for about the sixth time, banging her hand on the steering wheel as if that would make any difference. "Jesus, can't they just move the damned thing already? This is fucking ridiculous."

Arthur was sifting through radio stations, trying to find out more information, and the static was really starting to piss Eames off.

 _Calm down, you're fine_ , he told himself, but his little pep-talks were no longer helping.

 _Everything_ was starting to set him off.

He couldn't hold it back anymore.

"God—bloody— _damn it_ , this is such _bollocks_!" he shouted, pounding his fist on the seat cushion. "How much fucking longer are we going to have to bloody _sit here_? They need to stop pissing around and get the bleeding job done—bloody thick as shit, they are… _Fuck_!"

Arthur turned around in the seat and Eames sank back in his, biting his lip and looking at the floor. "Would you calm down?" Arthur said in exasperation. "We're all annoyed, but we're not all blowing a gasket."

"Sod off," Eames grumbled.

"Jeez, Eames, what's _wrong_ with you?" Arthur complained. "You don't have to be such a jackass."

Eames bit back a rather obscene insult, but from the look on Arthur's face, the message had still been received. "Nothing," he said tersely, "nothing is wrong with me. I'm just bloody tired of sitting here."

"Boys," Olivia warned quietly.

"Then take a nap or draw in your sketchbook or something," Arthur griped, turning back around. His anger lacked strength. He didn't want to fight.

Eames knew he wouldn't be able to sleep, so instead he drew hard-lined, screaming faces all over one page of his sketchbook and filled another one in completely with graphite scribble.

They finally started to move.

Eames spent the rest of the drive to civilization with a hand pressed over his eyes, trying to quell his nausea.

When they reached a gas station, Eames couldn't get out of the car fast enough. He locked himself in the bathroom and immediately set to work, burning a spoonful of heroin with his lighter. He was sweating bullets while impatiently waiting for it, whimpering low in his throat as he tied off the tourniquet, syringe clutched between his teeth. He smacked at his arm until he found a vein, leveled the needle there, and injected.

He was so relieved that he shed a few tears and just sat there in the floor for a long time, just breathing.

* * *

"Is he okay?" Olivia asked.

Arthur was a short distance away from her while she pumped gas, smoking a cigarette to relax him. "I'm sure he just gets antsy on long trips. We were all getting a little agitated. Maybe he's just not as patient as we are. He did have to piss after all." He said it all far too quickly, and even he didn't completely believe it.

Actually, Arthur was deeply, _deeply_ concerned.

He'd never seen Eames act that way before. Sure, he'd been yelled at by Eames. He remembered that quite vividly even still, five years later, and it still made his chest ache a little when he thought about it, but he'd put that behind him. His anger back then might not have been justified, but it had been motivated. The sudden flash of anger that he'd expressed in the car didn't seem to have any reason or direction.

He was just being irritable for the sake of being irritable. Sure, the traffic had ruffled Arthur's feathers as much as anyone else, but Eames had definitely overreacted. There had been no need for him to act so _hateful_. In need of a bathroom or not, it was too much.

It worried him.

"I'm sorry," he said then, suddenly, and looked at his mother in shame as if it had been _his_ fault that Eames had acted so out of line. "He's normally not like this. I don't know what his problem is."

"It's fine, Arthur, really," she assured, replacing the pump to its proper place and closing the gas cap. "We all have our tics, you know. You don't have to worry about impressing me."

Arthur blinked. "Wha—"

She approached, combing a hand through his hair, smiling, and said, "The suits and the first names and the nervous little smiles… I _know_ that you two were trying to be respectful and all that. You two went out of your way to try to impress me."

Arthur blushed. "So, you caught on then that we're…"

"You couldn't have been more obvious if you tried, honey," she said. He looked down at the ground, ashamed. "You could have just told me, you know," she continued. "I'm really happy to see you have someone in your life. You always seemed so lonely."

Arthur swallowed hard and nodded weakly, blinking back tears. "He's normally not so bad. I don't know what's wrong… Do you think he's just nervous or something? He's usually so nice to me, but—" He squeezed his eyes shut, working his jaw to try to stop the tears because he hated crying in front of his mother. They fell anyway.

"Oh, baby," she said sadly, taking him into her arms. "It's okay. I'm sure it's just the nerves. He's been perfectly delightful most of the time. It just got to him. Don't take it personally, okay?"

Arthur didn't take it personally though. He was just scared over the sudden change and the look on his face… he'd had this disgusted, vile, ugly, _savage_ look that Arthur had never seen on him before, not even when they'd had that horrible fight all those years ago. There had been absolutely _no_ love in his eyes then, and Eames had never looked upon Arthur without some sort of love.

It made his heart ache, and it made it hard to stop the tears, but he managed to stop them before Eames came back.

When Eames did come back, fumbling with a new pack of cigarettes, Arthur and his mother were already waiting for him in the car.

"Sorry about that," he said lightly as he crawled into the back seat.

"We weren't waiting that long," Arthur said quietly, flicking his lighter over and over and watching the flame appear and reappear.

"Actually…" Eames admitted shyly, "I was talking about earlier… I was a bit out of line."

Arthur huffed in response.

"Okay, a _lot_ out of line. I'm apologizing here. At least give me a _little_ credit, would you?"

Arthur finally ventured a glance at Eames, and with that apologetic smile on his face, it was hard for Arthur to stay mad at him.

"Okay, _fine_ , I forgive you," Arthur mumbled. "Just don't act like that anymore."

"I'll do my best," Eames replied, followed by a moment of long, awkward silence.

"Oh, just kiss and make up already," Olivia snickered.

Arthur pouted a little but did anyways.

It didn't make him feel much better, but he did his best to ignore that.

* * *

Arthur read while Eames slept in the back seat, but he honestly couldn't tell anyone what he was reading about. The too-soft breathing coming from Eames made his heart rate speed just a little faster, a nervous feeling rolling around in his gut.

 _It's normal_ , he told himself. _Everything's fine_.

…and that was true, he supposed. He was surely worrying over nothing. Arthur was just freaking out over nothing because being in a serious relationship with Eames was more of an adjustment than he realized. Eames wasn't some perfect specimen of man who never got angry and did regrettable things. He wasn't some wonderful Disney-esque prince ready to sweep Arthur off of his feet and just love and adore him forever and always. They were going to bicker and fight and slam doors on each other. They were going to pout in corners and eventually forgive one another and have great make-up sex. There was going to be misunderstandings and shouting and tears. Eames was going to have things about him that Arthur disliked, and Arthur was going to have things about himself that Eames disliked. It would have been stupid to think otherwise.

Still… he couldn't stop worrying, and he wondered if his obsessive-compulsive need to worry about such ridiculous things was something Eames would find agitating about him.

Eames was impatient and insufferable when crammed into a small space and forced to wait. Arthur was a worry-wart.

No big deal.

…but something was _wrong_ , Arthur kept thinking. Despite his effort to banish the thought, it stayed, burrowing deep into his brain and festering there. It wormed its way through his skull like a parasite with Robert's words as its tail.

 _Don't come crying to me when he fucks you over_.

What the fuck did Robert know?

Robert had barely been introduced to Eames, and he was claiming that Eames was trouble, and that was just ridiculous. Arthur had known Eames much longer than Robert ever had, and he knew that Eames was perfectly safe. He may have had some _problems_ in the past, but that was before Arthur had met him, and from the beginning of their whirlwind relationship Arthur had thought they fit just splendidly together, like peanut butter and bananas (jelly was so overrated).

Something was _wrong_.

The idea itched there under his skin, Robert's blue eyes looking condescendingly at Arthur like Arthur didn't know anything… like Arthur couldn't see like Robert could see because Robert was so goddamned _smart_ and Arthur was so blinded by _love_.

Robert had thought love was a foolish emotion and didn't believe in it. It was part of what made him un-dateable from the time the two of them had met. Arthur was sure the bitterness came from the loveless marriage Robert's parents had endured and the way his father had seemed to despise him from the day of his birth, but Arthur hadn't given up on the feeling despite a similar situation. It was just one of the many things that made them different, one of the many things that made Arthur fight with him quite often…

…but Arthur had never tried to make Robert believe in love. He'd never told him that he should take a chance on one of the boys he slept with because it would ultimately make him a happier, less bitchy human being in the future, and yet Robert had gone out of his way to put it in Arthur's head that what he and Eames had was ultimately destined for failure. That wasn't _fair_.

It wasn't _fair_ because Arthur loved Eames. He really and truly loved him. He knew that because he didn't feel that way about anybody else, ever… and just because he believed in love, and he had the ability to feel it unlike the ice queen Robert was—just because of that, Robert thought he was stupid and blind. He wasn't. He _wasn't_. He knew that Eames didn't look just _great_ , but Robert didn't know that Eames had been living on the streets. Of course Eames would be thinner and a paler and look a little sick.

Okay, so _maybe_ he still looked kind of bad considering he'd been living with Arthur for over a month. So what? Arthur was sure it was just taking Eames some time to adjust. It was a big change, living with someone… and besides, Eames didn't care that much about his appearance because he was more focused on his craft and Arthur could understand that, more or less.

…and yeah, maybe he hadn't painted that much since he'd moved in, at least not as much as he had five years ago, and maybe some of the paintings he _had_ done were a little… _unsettling_ … but that didn't mean that Eames was screwed up. He was just in a rough patch.

Arthur was _not_ just making excuses out of love.

He _wasn't_.

…was he?

"—thur."

Arthur blinked, shaking himself out of his stupor to see his mom glancing at him out of her peripheral vision. "Huh… what?" he asked blearily.

"Must be a pretty intense page in the book there, since you've been looking at it for about an hour. What's on your mind?"

"Oh… it's… it's nothing. I'm just tired."

She was clearly skeptical, so he looked out the window to avoid eye contact.

"You sure you're okay?" she asked.

"Yeah… yeah, I'm fine."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, nothing but the wind blowing by the windows to occupy the space. Arthur stared at the gray, gray scenery dotted with snow and wished he felt better… because he was just being stupid about all the worrying after all… at least, he really hoped—No, no, he was. He _was_.

"Oh, for God's sake, could you check on him, please? He's so quiet it's starting to scare me," Olivia said in frustration.

"I'm sure he's fine," Arthur mumbled, but he was unbuckling his seatbelt already, "he's just a quiet sleeper."

He leaned over Eames, touching his face gently. He was clammy but still breathing for sure. "Eames… hey, Eames," he said quietly.

Eames stirred a little and opened his eyes like he was staring into a bright light…

…and inside his eyes was nothing.

It was like Eames wasn't even in there.

Arthur felt his heart leap into his throat.

"Are we there?" Eames asked, and it was like he'd never left, and everything was _fine_. Arthur had been worrying for no reason, _really_.

"No," Arthur admitted. "We're uh… we'll probably stop soon and get something to eat. Is there anything in particular you want?"

"Not particularly hungry right now," Eames replied, sniffing and wiping his nose on the back of his hand. "You can pick where we go."

"You're not hungry?... but you haven't eaten since this morning—"

"Oh, don't act so panicked. I think I might be coming down with a bit of the lurgy is all. No need to make such a fuss."

"I don't know what lurgy means," Arthur said, finding his voice.

"I'm just a little ill is all, darling," Eames replied, sitting up and rolling his head around on his neck. "The flu maybe? I get it every year. I do tend to get nauseous in the car sometimes too."

"Oh… Oh. Oh, you're just a little… okay… all right, well, we can pick up some medicine or something and—yeah, that makes sense, okay…" Arthur turned back to his mother as if looking for her confirmation. "He's a little sick is all. That's all."

Arthur was worrying for no reason.

Really.

* * *

Eames didn't eat when they stopped, preferring to go to the bathroom and then sit on the hood of the car outside and work his way through the pack of cigarettes he'd bought at their last stop.

Arthur sat inside with his mother, picking at his roast beef sandwich. He just couldn't seem to find his appetite.

"It's Eames that's bothering you, isn't it," his mother said before taking a sip of her drink.

"It's just me fretting over nothing," Arthur said, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand. He was exhausted from the trip and from the carrying the weight of his thoughts. "I can't help it."

"Is he always like this?" she asked, looking out the window at his figure in the flurry as if he might hear what they were saying.

"No. He's just… sick, I guess… but he really shouldn't be out in the snow if he's coming down with the flu. He's not the smartest guy I know."

"I hope he doesn't get too sick, or he won't have any fun on the trip. You shouldn't kiss him anymore either, or you might catch it."

"Most of the time, he kisses me. I don't exactly see it coming, but I'll tell him to lay off of it for a while… at least until he feels better…"

He looked out at Eames's figure, his profile that was still the same one he had a photograph of stashed away, and yet it was so much thinner, and the eyes were so much more tired…

"You don't think he…" Arthur started and trailed off, shaking his head.

"Think he what?" Olivia asked, leaning over the table, expression unreadable.

"Nothing," Arthur said, shaking his head again. "It's nothing… I… I forgot what I was going to say."

They both knew that was a lie, but she didn't call him on it, and Arthur didn't admit to it.


	5. Grace Under Pressure (5/10)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. **Sequel to _Bite Hard_**. Arthur reunites with Eames. By the next day, they're living together. Still, with the two of them, there's always the opportunity for things to get _complicated_.

Part Five

By the time they arrived at the cabin, it was dark outside. The snow had piled high on both sides of the road and was still coming down, but it looked as though someone, probably Cobb, had gone out and shoveled it prior to their arrival.

By that point, Arthur had chain-smoked more than Eames.

"Finally!" Olivia exclaimed, throwing her hands up in the air as soon as she threw the car into park. "Let's get out of this fucking car!"

Both seemed to agree, but Eames seemed to take his time getting out. Arthur took him by the arm, locking eyes with him, and Eames shrugged him off.

"Why are you so bloody on edge, Arthur?" he asked. "Relax, would you? I'm going to be on my best behavior for your friends."

"It's not about that, Eames. I'm just… You've just been acting a little weird, and I thought that maybe you just—Don't worry about it. It's just me being OCD. Sorry."

Eames grinned and tapped the tip of Arthur's nose. "You're doing it again, love. _Relax_ , all right? Everything's fine."

Arthur wasn't quite so sure but bit down on his thoughts and kept them to himself.

He wondered when it had gotten to the point that he couldn't tell Eames what was on his mind. Eames used to be the only one he _could_ talk to. He tried to tell himself that of course things would be different now because they weren't the same people as they were five years ago, but…

Arthur's thoughts finally lightened up the moment the door to the cabin swung open. He was immediately pulled into Mal's arms and into the warmth inside, and he smiled contentedly against her shoulder, fingers curling into her long hair.

"Arthur, Arthur, _mon cher_ , _mon cher_ ," she cooed, rubbing her hands up and down his back. "Oh, it's been too long. I've missed you."

Arthur kissed her cheek as he pulled back, smiling. "Merry Christmas."

" _Joyeux Noel_." She kissed both of his cheeks and even pecked his lips in response, leading the group in with laughter and excited chatter.

Eames followed behind slowly, watching as Mal continuously touched Arthur and smiled and hugged him. She was stunning. She was more beautiful than Arthur had told him, more beautiful than she was in her photographs.

Amongst the chaos, Eames did manage to see when the man who must have been Mr. Cobb thrust his hand out at him, looking cheerful but a bit confused. "Hi there," Cobb said, and Eames couldn't help but think that Cobb was quite attractive too. Since Arthur had photographed them, Cobb had apparently decided to start growing his facial hair.

"Hello," Eames replied awkwardly, shaking Cobb's hand firmly. "Ah… I'm Thomas. Arthur invited me."

"Welcome, then," Cobb said, releasing Eames's hand to go shut the door. "Make yourself at home."

Eames nodded and followed the direction of the voices of Olivia, Arthur, and Mal. It turned out they'd made their way into the sitting room, crammed with plush furniture and real wood furniture, where there was some sort of animated Christmas special playing on the television. There was a real pine tree in the corner, covered in blinking lights, tinsel, and sparkly ornaments. It was all extremely festive; reminiscent of the Christmas's Eames had had back in England back when he was a child. The thought doesn't make him sad like it usually would because he sees Arthur there by the tree, colors reflecting onto his skin and the mug of hot chocolate already in his hands, and he's smiling…

He thought it would have been cheesy to claim he went a little weak-kneed, but it was the truth.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Mal said, standing as soon as Eames entered the room. "Oh, I should have introduced myself. I'm so rude. Hello, I'm Mallorie."

Eames took her hand, knelt down, and kissed the top of it. " _Enchant_ _é_ _._ "

Mal giggled, charmed, and her smile was bright and perfect. "Your French pronunciation is quite good, Monsieur—"

"Thomas," Eames replied, winking at Arthur inconspicuously over her shoulder. "I'm Thomas, a good friend of Arthur's from back home. I used to bum around Montmartre when I was a lad and picked up on quite a bit of the language. I'm not fluent by any means, but I do know some basics."

"I didn't know that," Arthur said.

Eames brushed by Mal with a smile to ruffle Arthur's hair. "There are plenty of things you still don't know about me. I wonder how much I don't know about you."

"Don't do that," Arthur grumbled, trying to restore his hair to its un-mussed state.

Eames did it again.

Arthur huffed.

"So, Monsieur Thomas," Mal said, pressing a gentle hand on his shoulder, and Eames was once again taken by her beauty. "How do you know our Arthur?"

"Oh," Eames said as she led him to the couch and sat down, and she had the most radiant smile. "Oh, ah—Arthur and I ah—"

"We met at Starbucks," Arthur finished for him, awkwardly.

They both seemed to notice Olivia turn her eyes on them, so Eames quickly added, "Arthur and I are right good mates. We're both artists, you see. We really connected through that."

"Oh, yes, Arthur is a splendid photographer," Mal said, beaming at the object of her praise. "Do you do photography too, Monsieur Thomas?"

"Oh, please, ma'am, Thomas is fine… Ah… no, no, I never really had a knack for photography. I'm a painter, mostly. Sometimes I draw, use pastels and the like."

"Oh, really? I'd love to see some of your artwork," Mal said. "I painted a bit back in school, but I was never very good at it. I could do still lives, but I never could paint people properly."

"Well, they don't call it an art for nothing," Eames replied, grinning a little proudly. "I'll do a portrait for you tomorrow, if you like. I'm a bit knackered right now after the drive."

"Oh, I understand, I understand," Mal nodded. "Dom, dear, could you get Thomas a drink for me?"

"Sure," Cobb said, nodding. "Arthur, why don't you come with me? I want to show you the renovations we made to the kitchen last summer after you left."

Arthur followed after him, leaving Eames with Mal and Olivia.

As soon as the door flapped shut behind Arthur, Cobb turned on him, squinting unsurely at him.

"What?" Arthur asked, shifting a little uncomfortably under his gaze.

"You thought you could fool me, eh?"

Arthur looked everywhere but at Cobb, heart skipping a beat as he panicked. He irrationally thought that Cobb was about to lecture him about how _dangerous_ Eames was, and how Eames was going to fuck him over, just like Robert had… He feared that Cobb saw what Robert saw that Arthur apparently didn't, and he didn't want to hear it because that meant that maybe there was truth to Robert's words and Arthur really _was_ blinded by love and affection.

That maybe…

"He's your boyfriend, isn't he," Cobb said then, and Arthur fought not to expel the breath he'd been holding too rapidly.

"…kind of… I mean… well, yes. He is."

"He's older than your last boyfriend."

"I always seemed to have an affinity for older men, I guess," Arthur replied awkwardly. He thought that perhaps it was a bad idea to bring that up. "My last few relationships have been kind of… flops. This one is different though."

"So, this one's serious, hm?" Cobb asked, raising his eyebrows.

Arthur nodded, looking at the floor. "Yeah… it is."

"Why are you so downtrodden about that?" Cobb asked, chuckling a little, but even that sound was a little uncertain, like he was worried. "It's a good thing, right?"

"I… I don't know… It's a big step. I guess I'm just freaking out over nothing."

He wanted Cobb to tilt one corner of his lips upward and laugh it off and tell him to stop being silly, but it wasn't what he did. Instead, he furrowed his brow and said, "What is _nothing_ , exactly?"

Arthur didn't want to tell him that he was worried about Eames's weird attitude and slenderness and distant sleepy eyes because they surely must have all been in his head, so instead, he decided to say something else.

"Cobb… if I tell you something, you promise you won't be mad?"

"Depends."

" _Promise_."

"Okay, _fine_ … I promise."

Arthur looked around like there were eyes all over him, and then he said with a sigh, "That's Eames."

It took Cobb a second to remember who Eames was, but when he did, it was obvious. He raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes and simply said, "What—"

"It's not what you think!" Arthur amended quickly, realizing what it must look like. "It's not like I've been continually seeing him behind your back for years, okay? We really did break up, I _swear_." He feared that sounded a lot like a lie, even though it wasn't. "We just met up again recently and… and I still had feelings for him, and… well, since I'm legal and all that…"

"You thought you'd give it another shot," Cobb finished for him.

"I didn't… _plan_ on it going this way, but… Yeah. I guess so."

Cobb sighed, running a hand over his hair. "I had a feeling that was him. He was the same age, and he was English, and he was an artist… It sure sounded like him."

"Your memory is ridiculously good," Arthur deadpanned.

"There's no way I could forget that story, not with the way you sounded when you told it."

The sentence caught Arthur off-guard. "What do you mean?" he asked, heart aching a little.

"It was so clear how much he meant to you when you told the story, the way you cried, the look of agony on your face when you talked about how much you wanted to protect him and how touched you were when he took care of you. It was the most emotion I'd ever seen you feel."

"…Oh…" Arthur said, partially blown away. "Oh, well… oh. Okay."

Cobb pressed his palm to Arthur's shoulder, warm even through his jacket and shirt. "I'm only asking this as your friend. Please, just tell me, are you _sure_ , absolutely _positive_ that this is a good idea? That this is real, genuine love? That everything's okay?"

Arthur wanted to cry and throw his arms around Cobb and tell him _No, no, I don't know. I don't know anything anymore. I know I love him, but I don't know what to do_.

Instead he said, "Yes. I'm sure."

"Then I support you, all right? You know I'm always here for you."

"I know," Arthur said. "Um… could you not tell Mal about all this? I… I'll tell her later… when I'm ready."

"No problem," Cobb said with a smile, grabbing a mug and filling it with hot chocolate. "Here, take this to Eames."

Arthur nodded, wanting to get out of the kitchen and away from Cobb's knowing eyes before he said something he'd regret.

He found the group in the same spot, excitedly talking about favorite artists.

"The kitchen looks really great, Mal," Arthur said as he handed Eames the chocolate. He hadn't even noticed the differences because of his discomfort. "Cobb planned the architecture, but you decorated it, didn't you?"

"You know me so well," Mal said, grinning.

Eames blew on the drink before taking a sip and smiling at Arthur, and Arthur reminded himself that the smile was just for him. It was such a great smile, and Eames _loved_ him.

It did make him feel a little bit better as he took a seat on the side of Eames that Mal wasn't occupying.

"Now," Eames said, following Cobb with his eyes as Cobb took a seat next to Olivia, handing her a mug of cocoa as well, "you've been asking questions of me since we got here, but if I may be so forward, perhaps I could ask you a question, Mrs. Cobb?"

"Of course," she said, cocking her head to the side a little, hands folded in her lap, and Arthur realized that she was looking particularly pretty. She'd always been pretty, but…

Eames appraised her for a moment before saying, "You wouldn't happen to be pregnant, would you?"

Her eyes widened a little, and, just before Arthur was about to smack Eames's arm for making her feel self-conscious about her weight, she smiled meaningfully at Cobb.

"Whoa… what?" Arthur asked, mouth falling open. " _Seriously_?"

Mal couldn't contain her joy as she nodded vigorously.

"Oh, my God…" Arthur said, stunned.

"Congratulations!" Olivia exclaimed, throwing her arms around Cobb and kissing his mouth unashamedly before running to Mal and doing the same.

Arthur just looked at Eames, still dazed, and said, "How… how did you know that?"

"I have a sixth sense for these sorts of things," Eames whispered, leaning close to Arthur's face. Arthur noticed his pupils seemed small. "Go congratulate your friends."

Arthur made sure they were distracted by the enthusiastic well-wishing from his mother before whispering back, "I'm not kissing you until you're well. I don't want the flu."

"Kissing is hardly what I had in mind for later."

Arthur jumped up then to get away from the draw of Eames's voice. It could sound so terribly hypnotizing and alluring sometimes, and Arthur was pretty sure it'd be awkward if he threw Eames over the coffee table and fucked him there in front of everyone.

* * *

Arthur crept out of his room in the middle of the night, padding down the hall in his bare feet, arms folded over his chest in an effort to keep some sort of warmth in his body.

He couldn't sleep.

He'd had a nightmare that he couldn't remember, but he was pretty sure it had something to do with Eames and a hole burned into his chest.

He contemplated going into Eames's room but decided against it, slipping silently down the stairs into the living room where the tree still blinked joyously in the corner. He fixed himself a glass of wine and sipped at it for a while, hoping to get drunk enough to fall asleep again and damn the hangover in the morning.

He nearly spilled his third glass all over the couch when an icy touch pressed against the back of his neck. He managed not to scream as he turned around, thankfully, because it was Eames with mussed hair and sleepy eyes.

"What are you doing down here?" he asked, voice scratchy and thick with sleep. He sniffed and wiped his nose on his arm.

"Couldn't sleep," Arthur replied, holding up the wine glass, "decided to have a drink…"

"Ah," Eames said, nodding. He took the glass and took a swallow of it. "Ooh, that is too _sweet_ for my tastes."

Arthur drained the rest of the glass and set it on the coffee table. "You're not too much a fan of sweet things, are you?"

"I'm a fan of you," Eames replied, coming around to stand in front of Arthur. Even in the dim light of the Christmas tree, he could still see the mischievousness of Eames's smile. "My darling…"

"I told you that I would not kiss you until you weren't sick anymore," Arthur threatened, but it sounded more like he was about to take it back.

"I don't have to kiss you on your mouth," Eames said, grabbing Arthur by the elastic waistband of his pajama pants and pulling him closer.

Arthur's arms unconsciously snaked around his neck, and he pressed their foreheads together. His eyes fluttered close as Eames trailed his hands up his abdomen and chest until his thumbs were resting just below Arthur's ears. His eyebrows furrowed just a little, but it didn't go unnoticed by Eames.

"Something bothering you, love?" he asked quietly, breath puffing against his lips.

"You wouldn't ever lie to me, Eames… would you?" he asked, and his voice was so vulnerable that he barely recognized it.

"What brought this about?" Eames asked, mouthing down his neck, and Arthur breathed out of his nose, feeling the unexpected sensation of the beginnings of a breakdown—chest tightening, sinuses panging slightly, knot forming in his throat.

"I told you… I just worry too much about nothing. I have nothing to worry about, don't I?"

Eames pushed Arthur's t-shirt up off of his chest, kissing lightly there. "You have nothing to worry about," Eames said. "Is it me you're worried about?"

Arthur just made a small sound that sounded almost like a sob, and he clenched and unclenched his hands against Eames's shoulders. "No… No… well… it's just that… it's nothing, it's _nothing_ , Eames."

Eames paused, coming back to his full height, and Arthur opened his eyes to see that Eames was staring deeply into his eyes. It was a look so intent that Arthur wondered if he could see straight through the back of his skull to the tree…

…and then Eames kissed him, languid and chaste and slow, and Arthur no longer cared that Eames was sick and he'd sworn not to kiss him, nor did he care that Eames hadn't answered the question about him lying to him. It was stupid to think that he would.

They loved each other.

Arthur wrapped his arms around Eames's neck and deepened the kiss, and his eyes were squeezed so tightly shut that he was seeing spots, and he was clinging to him desperately… and Arthur was absurdly thinking that if he _didn't_ cling to him, he would lose him forever. The thought terrified him.

Even when he and Eames had been apart, Arthur had still held comfort in the fact that the man was in the world, and suddenly the idea that somehow Eames might _not_ be around made him panic.

He couldn't stand the idea of Eames never running his fingers through his hair again, like he was now… He couldn't stand the idea of him never caressing his skin and making him feel like he was the most treasurable thing on the planet or the idea of never seeing that devilish little smile, hearing that little lilt to his voice when he made lofty suggestions, watching him paint or draw with his tongue in the corner of his mouth while he concentrated, tracing his tattoos with his fingers… to never be able to see his eyes twinkle a little when Arthur said his name…

…to never hear him say _darling_.

"Shh, shh…"

Arthur's eyes opened, and he looked around frantically only to see Eames's chest. Eames was stroking his hair still, but Arthur was distracted by the choking sobs erupting from his own body, by the way he was violently trembling.

"Arthur, shh… you'll wake everyone up. It's okay…" Eames said soothingly, and Arthur looked up at him, mouth curved into a hard frown, and he couldn't get it to stop because suddenly Eames seemed so much sicker, so much paler, so much thinner…

Eames lifted Arthur into his arms, cradling him to his chest like a child, and Arthur hung on for dear life. "You're a bit squiffy is all it is," he explained, as if he knew what was going on inside Arthur's head, and carried him up the steps to his room, laying him down in his bed, and curling up next to him.

Arthur sniffled, slowly releasing his death grip on Eames's shoulders, and he thought that maybe he _was_ a little drunk (he never could hold his wine well)… but the thoughts of Eames's impermanence lingered. He didn't know where the insane fear had come from, but it was too powerful to contain at that moment, and all he could do was kiss him and kiss him and hope that he didn't feel his last breath slip from his mouth.

They fucked, and Arthur cried pathetically through the whole thing. Eames would wipe his tears away only for them to return and kiss away his shouts of anguish that mixed so confusingly with the physical pleasure.

Afterwards, lying spent, drenched with sweat, and panting, he thought of the time back when he was a teenager, back when he had begged Eames to fuck him simply because he'd wanted to make him happy… simply because he loved him so much and didn't want to be a burden in his life… He had cried the same way that night as he was crying now, desperate and afraid and sensing the makings of a broken heart.

He really wasn't any different than he had been all those years ago. He'd tried so hard to mature and be stronger, to be someone worthwhile, but had he really accomplished anything? ...or was it that he _had_ accomplished his goals only to revert when Eames was there to catch him when he fell and coddle him afterwards?

Eames was almost asleep, but he still leaned in and pressed on kiss to Arthur's wet cheekbone and whispered, "Love you…"

"I love you…" Arthur responded quietly, voice cracking all over, and he buried himself in Eames's arms, reassured by the warmth of his skin and the rise and fall of his chest as his breathing slowed and evened out.

…and he ran his hands up and down Eames's forearms, trying to give some sort of comfort, and… and…

His thumb brushed against what he could have sworn was a puncture mark in the skin, warmer than the rest of the arm…

…but… that surely must have been his imagination.

 _You worry too much_.

It must have been.

_Please, just tell me, are you sure, absolutely positive that this is a good idea? That this is real, genuine love? That everything's okay?_

Arthur pressed his thumb against the mark in Eames's skin, surely bruising there, and he bit down on his bottom lip.

_Just don't come crying to me when he fucks you over._

"Go t'sleep…" Eames mumbled, grunting as he moved his arm away from Arthur's harsh touch to wrap it more gently around his back.

"Eames… you wouldn't lie to me, would you?" he asked, voice a quiet croak.

"Go to sleep," he said more gruffly, and that was the end of it.

Arthur woke up four times having to check to make sure Eames's chest still wasn't burned through before he finally fell asleep for good.

 _I love you_.


	6. Grace Under Pressure (6/10)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. **Sequel to _Bite Hard_**. Arthur reunites with Eames. By the next day, they're living together. Still, with the two of them, there's always the opportunity for things to get _complicated_.

Part Six

Eames awoke to the sound of his bedroom door opening and the sound of Mal's voice. "Monsieur Thomas, have you seen—"

Eames raised his head sleepily, rubbing at his eyes, and he saw her standing there with her hand over her mouth. With her hand there, Eames couldn't tell if she was amused or alarmed, but thankfully she dropped it to show that she was the former.

"Oh… sorry…" she said.

"He had a bad dream is all," Eames replied, looking down at Arthur who was curled up next to him, snoring. He was even laughing at the lame lie. What kind of bad dream required a person to shed of their clothes?

"Breakfast will be ready in about ten minutes. I'll just… leave you two alone…" Mal mumbled, giggling as she shut the door.

Eames rolled out of bed, rolling his shoulders and pawing the floor for his underpants when he heard Arthur move on the mattress. He looked over his shoulder to see him sitting up, squinting in the light, looking strung out and hungover. His hair was an absolute mess, and there was a dried line of drool on his cheek.

"Sometimes you're so beautiful, I think I might just cry," Eames said, smirking.

Arthur threw a pillow at him. "Oh, go fuck yourself, Eames… Fuck… what time is it? What happened last night?"

"It's nine-ish," Eames shrugged. "You don't remember last night?"

"I sort of remember… There was alcohol and sex."

"You were the only one drinking, darling."

Arthur twitched at the word _darling_ , and Eames wasn't sure why.

"I feel like absolute shit…" Arthur mumbled, dragging himself across the room to Eames's bathroom. "I need a shower."

Eames followed after him and let Arthur lean against him while he started the shower. Arthur kept running his hand over the left side of Eames's chest, just as he had at least three times during the night. "Something bothering you?" he asked.

Arthur clambered into the shower, shaking his head. "It's nothing. Shower with me."

Eames took off the underwear he'd just put on and climbed in. The shower seemed to wake Arthur up a little bit, sighing as Eames massaged shampoo into his hair.

"Does your head hurt?" Eames asked.

"A little… I'm okay. It's not too bad. How are you this morning? Do you still feel sick?"

"I feel just dandy," Eames replied, tilting Arthur's head back under the spray and pressing a kiss to his Adam's apple. "Perhaps I have avoided it after all."

"That's good," Arthur said, body arching to press against Eames's. He was already half hard.

Eames sucked a red bite mark on Arthur's shoulder and brought his hand down to stroke him until he was whimpering, and that was when he turned Arthur and pressed him against the wall, kissing along his shoulder blades.

"Breakfast is going to be ready soon," Eames whispered.

"Be quick then, fuck," Arthur groaned, leaning his head back against Eames's shoulder. "Why are you giving me useless information right now? Stop being a dumbass and let's _go_."

"You're always so mean before you have your coffee," Eames said, pressing his fingers against Arthur's entrance and biting at his earlobe. "I should just leave you wanting."

Arthur whined a little, unable to help himself, and Eames shoved one finger in.

"Don't fret, darling. You know I can't say no to you. I'll give you what you want, but let's not be too loud now or you'll disturb the others."

Eames took no time before sliding in another finger and then a third. Arthur made a disappointed sound when he removed them all at once, but then Eames lined himself up and pushed in, and Arthur choked on the sound.

His fists were white-knuckled on the shower wall as Eames thrust in and out, quick and fevered, and Arthur was biting down on increasingly frantic noises.

"Fuck—Eames, ah—" Arthur stammered, hands slipping on the tiles. " _Eames_ , I—"

Eames reached around and took hold of Arthur's prick, stroking feverishly, and Arthur clenched around Eames, spilling all over his hand and the wall with a shuddered moan. Eames came almost immediately afterward, teeth sinking into a spot on Arthur's back, and then he slumped against his back, breathing heavily against his skin.

They finished the shower, cleaning themselves up, and got dressed in silence.

Eames realized that something was wrong.

"Okay," Eames said then, just as he finished tugging his t-shirt over his long-sleeved shirt. "Clearly whatever this _nothing_ is that's bothering you is clearly not nothing. What's wrong, Arthur? Why were you crying last night?"

"C-crying?" Arthur stammered. "When was I crying? I don't remember—"

"Last night, down in the lounge and up here too. You wouldn't stop. I had to carry you up the steps."

Arthur looked around, somewhat panicked, and said, "I don't remember. It must have been the wine."

"I don't remember you ever being a crying drunk."

"Well, I don't remember why I was crying. Just forget about it," Arthur mumbled, turning to retreat from the room and the conversation, but Eames caught him by the arm and turned him back around.

"Darling…"

"Mal's going to wonder where we are."

Arthur looked down at Eames's arm, the one holding to his wrist, and he almost seemed to be trying to stare through the fabric of his sleeve, and that was when Eames remembered the way Arthur had grabbed hold of the same arm so harshly the night before, thumb pushing down achingly on one of his—

"It's _nothing_ , Eames. I'm fine. I don't remember. Let's just go get breakfast and forget about it, okay?"

Eames sighed, releasing Arthur's wrist. "Fine."

* * *

Arthur _did_ remember.

He didn't want Eames to know what madness had been going on in his head. He didn't want Eames to know that he had been terrified that he might die somehow and that he might have imagined wounds on Eames's body because he was drunk and scared.

That had been imagined, right?

Of course the charred holes in his chest had been imagined, but what about the one on his arm? He had been too distracted by the sex in the bath to check, and now Eames had hidden the skin on his arms with a long-sleeved shirt.

It didn't matter. It had been imagined.

Hadn't it?

Arthur needed to know, but he wasn't sure how to go about checking without Eames knowing. He could have just asked, but he didn't want Eames to think he didn't trust him because he _did_ …

…mostly…

Well, he couldn't have trusted him completely if he was suspicious. He hated admitting that, but he wasn't going to deny it. He still thought ( _hoped_ ) that everything was all in his head, and he was being ridiculous, and he'd find out such and hate himself for ever questioning such a thing.

Until he knew for sure though, he could not let it go.

"Arthur," Olivia said, touching his shoulder, and he realized he'd been staring down into his plate for a long time. "Honey, are you okay? Are you feeling sick?"

"Ah… um… No, I'm fine," Arthur said, forcing on a smile. "I think I'm just a little sleepy still. I didn't sleep well last night… You know, new bed and all that." He grabbed his coffee cup and sipped at it so that he wouldn't have to talk anymore.

Eames was giving him the worried eyes from across the table, and Arthur couldn't help but be angry at him for it. _Eames_ was the one who needed worrying about, not _Arthur_ … unless Arthur really was just insane for thinking what he was thinking.

 _Damn it, I'm supposed to be on vacation_ , Arthur thought bitterly. _I shouldn't be worrying so much. I should be having a good time. Fuck._

They finished breakfast, and then Eames sat back on the coffee table and sketched Mal lounged on the couch. Arthur sat next to him and watched him do it, how perfectly the lines fell upon the page. Eames was so talented… but Arthur couldn't help but think he did better five years ago. His lines were darker and slightly jagged now. His hand trembled a little every time he stilled it.

The drawing still came out beautifully, and Mal was appropriately impressed. Afterwards, Arthur's mom insisted he draw her and Arthur, and so he did. Arthur lay with his head in her lap, staring up at her while Eames sketched, and it was odd that he could tell she knew something was off by the way her hand was planted in his hair.

By the time Eames finished the sketch, Arthur had managed to put himself at some sort of ease because he didn't want to worry his mother.

"Oh, it's amazing," Olivia said gleefully. "You're so talented. Oh, wow. You drew Arthur just… _perfectly_. Arthur, look at this!"

Arthur just smiled at Eames because he already knew how good it was, and he said quietly, "Looks like you got my eyes right."

Something shifted in Eames's gaze then, a kind of unsure look, an almost _guilty_ look.

* * *

By the next day, Cobb already needed to shovel the walk again, and Arthur went out to help.

Eames, claiming he felt ill, stayed inside. He'd shot up a bit too much, he thought, and his limbs were so heavy he could barely move. He had a towel pressed up against his nose because it was running so badly, curled up in a corner in the bathroom with the door locked so that no one would come in and see him.

He'd shot up through a vein in his leg, behind his knee, so that Arthur wouldn't see the fresh track mark. He was giving time for the ones already on each arm to vanish because Arthur was getting suspicious, and he couldn't let that happen.

If Arthur found his track marks, he'd start thinking that Eames was still a heroin addict, which he _wasn't_.

He was hiding it to protect Arthur and their relationship, not because he was addicted. There was no way Arthur could possibly understand what it was like—how _good_ it felt, and how bad it felt to be without it.

…that… didn't sound right. It was true, but it didn't sound right.

"Fuck," Eames mumbled, looking up to the ceiling. His voice was muffled by the towel.

"Thomas? Monsieur Thomas?" Eames barely heard the voice at first, but it was clear as day when Mal was knocking on the bathroom door. "Monsieur Thomas? Is everything all right in there?"

"Fine, fine," Eames mumbled, but even he couldn't be fooled by the way he sounded. His voice was clogged with the horrid phlegm running down the back of his throat, his words slurred from the drop in blood pressure.

"Are you sure? You've been up here for quite some time. Do you need some water or something? Medication?"

Eames forced himself up off of the floor and stumbled to the door, unlocking it to peek out at her, to shoo her away. "I'm okay, just a little under the weather," he said, slumping in the doorframe, and was surprised by the look of alarm that washed over her features at the sight of him. "What?" he asked warily.

She placed a palm on his forehead before moving it to his cheek, and she shook her head, pulling him out of the bathroom. "You're feverish. You look terrible. You need to lay down right now."

"It's not that bad," he tried to say, but he really couldn't make much of an argument with a towel pressed to his runny nose and his feet barely shuffling across the floor. "I've been worse off."

 _I used to be an addict after all_.

She pushed him gently down onto the bed and set to untying his shoes and pulling them off. "You just lay here, and I'll make you some warm tea with lemon and honey."

"That sounds delightful, but you don't have to do that," Eames said, trying to smile. He didn't want the tea, afraid it would upset his already upset stomach. "I wouldn't want you stressing your body over me, not with the little one on the way."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," she admonished, tugging the duvet over Eames's body and smoothing out some of the short hairs on his head with her hand. "I'll be back, all right?"

"Don't worry about the tea," Eames tried again. "I'll just try to sleep this off."

He waited for her to leave before he reached down beneath the covers and scratched at his injection site. It didn't relieve the itch very much, scraping at it through his jeans, but it helped somewhat.

Just as he drifted off, he thought vaguely of Vince and hoped that the bastard hadn't given him any bad junk.

It was a little late to be worrying about that now, he realized.

* * *

Arthur tugged his coat off with a shiver when he got inside, dusting the rapidly melting snow off of his hair with hand. "You didn't have to push me into the snow, you know," Arthur said, smirking at Cobb.

"You didn't have to throw snowballs at me. I was just retaliating," Cobb replied simply. "You'll be fine. Just don't stand around in those wet clothes."

"I don't intend to," Arthur snorted, making his way further into the house where Olivia was asleep on the couch while a movie played on the television. Mal was just coming down the stairs.

"All finished then?" she asked, coming down to kiss Cobb.

Arthur noticed she looked a little flustered. "Is something wrong?" Arthur asked.

"Oh, everything is all right," she said, waving it off. "It does appear Monsieur Thomas does have a bad case of the flu though. I've sent him to bed. He's sleeping now. I've checked on him a few times."

"So, he really is sick? Is it really bad?" Arthur asked insistently, even though he was already starting for the stairs.

"I'm sure he'll be all right. If he gets any worse, we'll call a doctor," Mal insisted, but Arthur barely heard her because he was already stomping his way up to the second floor.

He found Eames in his bed, just where she'd left him, sleeping, breathing in that shallow way that made Arthur so uncomfortable. Mal had lovingly pressed a cool cloth to Eames's forehead, only for it to fall off when he rolled onto his side.

Arthur approached slowly and silently, careful not to wake him, and pulled the covers back slightly so that he could see his face.

Eames was ashen, and his face was a mess with mucous and drool. Arthur took the cool cloth and wiped the mess clean, and Eames grunted in his sleep. Arthur's eyes fell to Eames's arms, temptation creeping up his spine, but the temptation was sullied just as quickly as it came.

Eames had ripped holes in his sleeves to stick his thumbs through at some point, and now the fabric was hooked there between his thumb and index finger. Arthur wasn't sure how to remove them and push up the sleeve to check without waking Eames. He would have absolutely no medical explanation should he do so.

He sighed dejectedly and moved away from him, tugging his own shirt over his head. He tossed it over one arm as he left the room to get a change of clothes from his room (which was really all the room appeared to be good for since he'd been staying with Eames). He had to peel himself out of the wet jeans and underwear.

After changing into a pair of sweat pants and toweling his hair, he returned to Eames's room and lay down next to him, wrapping his arms around his waist and pressing his face into Eames's shoulder blade.

Arthur couldn't help but think that perhaps he didn't fit there quite as well as he used to.

* * *

Christmas arrived.

Arthur finally managed to put his thoughts aside and just enjoy it, at least for that day. It was easier to manage because Eames seemed to have caught the Christmas spirit and actually crawled out of bed to socialize with everyone else.

Arthur had had a fairly good time reconnecting with Cobb and Mal, spending time with his mother, despite all of his inner turmoil, but Eames had confined himself to his room most of the time, moaning and groaning about the lurgy or whatever he called it. He wasn't faking sick by any means—just looking at him was proof that he wasn't well—but Arthur had still been disappointed by the lack of company. Eames was still spry enough to shove Arthur up against the wall and fuck him the day before, so he couldn't understand why he couldn't come down and be somewhat social.

Arthur let his mother film while they all opened presents, and he was so happy that Eames was around and acting normal that he wasn't even upset when Mal chastised him for smoking. Arthur was somehow convinced into trying to quit for the sake of a child that wasn't even his own. It probably had a lot to do with the fact that Cobb had actually quit, leaving Arthur no one to smoke with other than Eames and sometimes his mom (though she didn't have much of a habit for it like he did).

"Are you really going to stop smoking?" Eames asked, laughing.

Arthur looked at the camera, polishing off his fourth glass of wine and said, "Yes, yes—I'm going to stop. This is proof and documentati—docu… this is proof."

Eames fell over laughing.

Arthur poured himself another glass of wine.

Somehow, around the sixth glass, after presents were opened and paper was scattered everywhere, Arthur found himself leaning against Eames's shoulder, slow dancing because he couldn't stand on his own. Mal was sitting at the piano, singing… and the moment was just _nice_.

It was like five years ago, back in his apartment, giggling like fools.

Arthur didn't even hear his mother giggle when she recorded him while he leaned up and chastely kissed Eames.

Eames spun him around, dipped him back and laid one full of passion all over his face, and all Arthur could do was let out a muffled sound of surprise and scramble in the hopes that he didn't fall down since, being well past tipsy, the world was tilting with him.

"That, darling, is how you kiss another man," Eames explained when he pulled away. "Amateur."

There might have been howls of laughter from Mal and Olivia when Arthur pulled him back down to show him what for, unabashedly snogging him in front of God and everyone.

"You're a fast learner," Eames breathed when Arthur finally detached his face from Eames's face.

"I do my best," Arthur said, surely grinning like a fool. He let go of Eames's neck then and fell down. He banged his hip on the coffee table in his descent, but he didn't seem to care because the alcohol made it so goddamn funny.

He wasn't sure when he passed out, but it was sometime between the second showing of A Christmas Story and the Peanuts special and somewhere between the couch and the piano.

Eames hoisted Arthur onto the couch, chuckling a little while shaking his head.

"He never could hold his alcohol well, I guess," Eames said, smoothing a loose curl off of Arthur's forehead.

"Not really," Cobb agreed, grinning. "I hope he's not too bruised from the fall."

"Oh, I'm sure he's fine," Eames said, walking back to the piano to grab his tumbler of bourbon. "He can take a little bit of pain."

"We _know_ ," the women teased before Olivia started making _Oh, Arthur, Oh, Arthur_ sex noises, and Eames made a sly face at them. It only made Cobb moderately uncomfortable, which Eames enjoyed far too much for his own good.

"Are _you_ all right?" Cobb asked, pointing his drink at Eames's leg. "You're limping a little bit."

"Sprained my ankle making the bed," Eames replied, downing a long gulp from his glass. "How pathetic, right?"

He finished his drink and casually made his way out of the room while Cobb and Mal and Olivia enthusiastically conversed, Arthur snoring away obliviously on the sofa. He locked himself into the bathroom with a sigh and dropped his pants with a subdued grunt, easing himself down onto the toilet seat and propping his leg up on the bathtub.

The injection site behind his knee had been infected, he was sure of that by the fever and redness around it, and it hurt. He'd been discreetly cleaning it since he realized it, but it hadn't helped much. It wasn't going away fast enough.

"Fuck," he hissed, stretching to grab the soap off of the sink and wet it down, pressing it to the area and scrubbing at it. It didn't feel as good as scratching it did, but he knew it was better for it than hacking away at it with his nails. He'd already scratched up his arms from picking at the skin.

He finished cleaning it and dried it with the hand towel but decided to just sit there for a minute because it felt better to have his leg elevated.

Suddenly he remembered a time years and years ago, back when Roxanne had still been alive when she'd gotten an infected site on her arm. It had been disgusting and pus-filled, and she'd still shot up there even with the wound.

It had still been on her arm when she died.

The memory made him shiver as he tugged his pant leg down, and he stood and looked at himself, really _looked_ at himself in the mirror.

He wasn't as skinny as he had been back then. Back then he had been bare bones.

He didn't look quite as sick and tired as he had back then. He'd looked nearly dead.

He hadn't scratched at all of his skin. He used to have scratches and scabs up his neck and face.

He didn't have any of those problems… yet.

Not yet.

When had the word _yet_ made its way into that sentence?

Damn it, he _wasn't_ a heroin addict. He _wasn't_.

Right?


	7. Grace Under Pressure (7/10)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. **Sequel to _Bite Hard_**. Arthur reunites with Eames. By the next day, they're living together. Still, with the two of them, there's always the opportunity for things to get _complicated_.

Part Seven

Eames was lounging on his bed and making a great effort not to scratch his infected spot when Arthur came in. It was evening, and everyone had gone off to bed. Eames had assumed Arthur would be unconscious for the night, snoozing on the couch and only pissy and complaining in the morning when he was hungover and sore.

"Are you hungover?" Eames asked, removing the cigarette from between his lips and putting it out in the ashtray.

Arthur shook his head, leaning against the doorjamb. "No… I'm still a little drunk, honestly."

"Well, at least you're coherent," Eames said. "Come to bed. Sleep it off."

Arthur stumbled across the room and collapsed onto the mattress next to Eames. He mumbled into the pillow for a moment before raising his head. "What did I come in here for?"

"Sex?" Eames queried.

Arthur furrowed his brow, thinking, and then shook his head. "No… I… Oh, yeah..." He dug in his pocket until he produced a small, wrapped box. "Merry Christmas, Eames."

"You got me a gift?" Eames asked, smiling delightedly, unable to help himself. He had felt a little left out during the exchange earlier. "Why didn't you give it to me earlier?"

"I just wanted it to be us," Arthur replied, sitting cross-legged with his hands on his ankles. "Go ahead and open it."

Eames undid the wrapping, laughing lightly. "It's a little box. It's not an engagement ring, is it?"

"No, it isn't," Arthur deadpanned, ears tinting just a little.

Eames opened the box and found inside a pair of dog tags on a chain. "Ooh," he said, tossing aside the box to examine them more closely.

One of them had his name, THOMAS EAMES, engraved across it while the other had Arthur's name on it.

On the back of the Eames tag were the words: _Fell in your opinion_

On the back of the Arthur tag were the words: _when I fell in love with you._

"Do you remember?" Arthur asked quietly.

Eames clutched the dog tags in his hand and looked up at Arthur, touched. "Of course I do."

"I… I didn't really know what to get you. I mean, if you don't like it—"

Eames shut him up with a kiss. "I love them, darling. It's the best thing you could have ever given me. Thank you…" he slipped them over his neck and admired them glinting in the dim light of the room. "I feel like such a tosser because I haven't gotten you anything. Fuck, I should have—I'm the worst boyfriend ever."

"You didn't need to get me anything," Arthur said, fiddling with the chain. "I know you don't have a lot of money. Besides, you've already given me so much… I mean, you made me the person I am. You helped me live again, and now I'm happy and following my dreams. I'm having dreams. What more could I ask of you other than to be here with me?"

"…and you thought I was cheesy," Eames said, but he actually had tears in his eyes. He didn't know why it hit him so hard, but it did, right to his heart… and as he leaned in to kiss Arthur again, he whispered, "You're too bloody good for me."

"It's too bad I don't want anyone else," Arthur said back, and Eames shoved him down onto the bed, kissing him fiercely. He didn't let up until Arthur was writhing underneath him, moaning between Eames's lips.

"What would you like for me to do, darling? I'll fuck you however which way you like. I'll even let you fuck me. Tell me what you want."

Arthur shook his head, signaling that he either no longer remembered how to speak or no longer cared what Eames did as long as he did something. With the awkward bulge in his pants and keening sounds, Eames had a feeling it was a bit of both.

Eames slowly lifted Arthur up off the mattress, pulling his shirt off of him and tossing it to the floor. He worked Arthur's pants and underwear off of him and added them to the pile and pecked his lips again.

"Tell me what you want, love," he said again, combing a hand through Arthur's hair, admiring the way the light jumped off of his skin.

Arthur swallowed hard and took a deep breath, calming himself, and his eyes sparked with nervousness. "Just fuck—Eames, please."

Eames grinned, kissing him again before crawling off of the mattress to get the supplies from his bag.

Arthur sat back on the mattress, watching him, and he demanded, just as Eames was crawling back onto the bed, "Take off your clothes."

Eames raised his eyebrows at Arthur. "So direct," he said.

Something unreadable glinted in Arthur's eyes behind the heavy clouds of lust.

Eames shrugged and pulled his shirt off, scrubbing his head with his hand once he was free. "Any other demands, darling?" he asked as he unbuttoned his pants. It was only as he was pulling them down, the fabric scraping against the back of his knee, that he remembered the infected area.

"Is something wrong?" Arthur asked. His voice sounded more suspicious than concerned.

"Not at all," Eames lied easily, dropping his pants and stepping out of them. He crept back onto the bed, pushing Arthur back down, pinning his hands down while he layered kisses over his torso. Arthur arched, trying to get some sort of friction, but Eames held him down with his good knee, smiling teasingly against the skin before sitting back on his haunches.

Pain burned behind his knee, but he did his best not to let it show on his face. He grabbed the lubricant off of the bedspread and squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers, and Arthur just lay there open-mouthed when Eames reached around behind and slipped one inside himself rather than inside Arthur.

"What are you doing?" Arthur asked, confused but intrigued by the shift in Eames's expression as he slipped another finger inside.

"Thought we'd try something new," Eames said, wincing at the pleasurable burn and the not-so-pleasurable one. He stretched himself for a little bit longer before removing his hand and ripping open the condom wrapper with his teeth. He'd been behaving himself when it came to Arthur wanting protection, at least most of the time, and he figured he'd keep it up since it _was_ Christmas and all, and Arthur deserved to get what he wanted.

"Wait, you're going to—" Arthur stammered as Eames rolled the condom onto Arthur's prick, kissing just below his bellybutton. "…but… I've never…"

"Love, what did I tell you about worrying too much?" Eames gently chastised. "You're going to enjoy this, I promise."

…and, before Arthur could say anything else, Eames lined himself up with Arthur's member and _dropped_ down, taking it all in one go.

Arthur made a strangled sound, eyes bulging.

"How does it feel, darling?" Eames asked roughly. It had been a long time since he'd found himself on the receiving end.

"Holy shit," Arthur gasped.

"I thought you might— _nn_ —like that." He lifted himself and dropped himself again, and it caused Eames to growl, blinking back stars from the pain. It _really_ hurt to bend his knee.

Eames rode Arthur for a few more moments, getting noises out of Arthur that he'd never heard from him before, and then Arthur scrambled to shove Eames over so he could get a better angle and have control. Eames fell upon the mattress and moaned while Arthur slammed into him, hands gripping desperately to his forearms, bruising with his thumbs and—

Wait, why was he doing that?

He didn't really have time to think about it because he could tell by the way Arthur was becoming more frantic that he was close to falling over the edge. Arthur had already been close when they started, dizzy with alcohol, and Eames pulled at least one of his arms away from Arthur's grip to stroke himself, panting as he felt it rising in him too, quickly. He was happy he hadn't shot up since the day before, since the heroin usually put a damper on his sex drive (usually, but not always), and _fuck_ , it just felt _good_. It didn't feel as good as it did fucking into Arthur, but it still felt fantastic…

…It certainly felt better than the pathetic little high he got from the drugs that went away far too soon to be of any sort of quality…

It was another one of those weird thoughts that just popped up in his head randomly, but oddly enough, this one didn't depress him like so many of them did.

He didn't dwell on it, instead choosing to watch Arthur as his hips stuttered, his mouth hanging open, his eyes squeezing shut, and then he was climaxing, trembling as wave after wave crashed against him. It was enough to make Eames fall off of the edge as well, and the next thing he knew, he was clearing the fuzziness from his body to find Arthur collapsed on top of him, breathing heavily, slick with sweat and sticky with Eames's come.

"Not bad, yeah?" Eames asked, and Arthur smacked his pectoral playfully. "We can switch it up now and then from now on if you like."

Arthur rolled off of him, chest still heaving, and stared up at the ceiling. "I… prefer it when you fuck me, actually," he admitted.

Eames propped himself up on an elbow, looking at Arthur curiously. "Is that so?"

Arthur nodded, eyes sliding shut. "Yeah… I like that… I like the way you make such an effort to please me… Actually, it's kind of like dancing, you know? Hear me out, I'm not that drunk—" he paused to let Eames laugh. "Like… okay, yeah, I am that drunk, but anyway, it's like dancing 'cause, like, the guy is the one who gets to lead, but really it's the girl in the dance that has all the control. Right?"

"Darling, you don't even dance," Eames chuckled, kissing his cheek.

"I could if I wanted to. We should take dance classes… No wait… that would suck. Would I have to wear heels? I'd look really dumb in heels."

"I think you'd look delectable in heels. Go to sleep, pet. You are drunk off your arse."

"Eames," Arthur slurred, clearly well on his way to sleeping. "You wouldn't lie to me, would you?"

Eames combed a hair behind Arthur's ear like he had earlier, and his knee ached. His heart ached more, guilt blossoming in his chest. "Why do you keep asking me that?" he asked quietly, and he didn't like the way his voice cracked a bit in the middle.

…but Arthur didn't respond.

He was already asleep.

* * *

Arthur woke up in the middle of the night to find himself cleaned up and tucked in next to Eames, who was snoring rather loudly since his nose was clogged up (as per usual these days).

Arthur pulled himself out of the warmth of the covers almost regrettably and grabbed his glasses off of the side table. There were no lights on in the room, but the snow outside was bright, its soft white surface reflecting the light of the moon to cast a cool blue glow across the floor, making it easy enough to see.

He lightly touched Eames, to see if there was any response. He only snorted, swallowed, smacked his lips, and went back to snoring.

Arthur looked at the door, paranoid, and turned back, grabbing Eames by the arm.

His arm was clear. He checked the other one, and there was also nothing.

He sighed, crawling out of bed, pulled on his underwear and a t-shirt, and made his way to his bedroom.

He dug his laptop out of his bag and opened a browser.

"Okay," he said to himself, taking a deep breath and letting it out. "Don't panic… Just… okay…"

He typed into Google: _symptoms of heroin abuse_

He was just scanning an article when there was a light knock on his door, startling him into closing the website and slamming the laptop shut.

His mother stood in the doorway with slept in hair, squinting at him in the dim light. "Couldn't sleep, baby?" she asked.

"Oh… um…" he stammered, heart still hammering against his chest from the fear that he'd almost been discovered. "Yeah. I guess. What are you doing up?"

"I couldn't sleep either," she replied, padding inside to sit down on the mattress next to him. "I didn't shake you up too badly, did I?"

"Ah, sorry, you—It's no big deal. I was just—I thought I was the only one awake in the house, and I was startled."

If she knew that he blabbered when he was nervous, she didn't call him on it. Instead, she said, "So… Is something keeping you awake? Bad dreams?"

 _It's reality that's freaking me out, actually_.

"Ah… I guess. I don't know."

"Is it Eames? You guys seemed a little uncomfortable around each other this week, or is it always like that?"

No, it wasn't always like that. Eames used to be the only person he could be comfortable around. Arthur remembered how he hadn't felt awkward in his skin five years ago, wandering around the man's apartment stark naked, how he'd bared himself both physically and mentally to him without an ounce of regret.

"I think we're just kind of awkward right now," Arthur decided to say, staring at his hands in his lap so he wouldn't have to look at her. "This relationship's still pretty new, and I've been insecure about him meeting my friends and family. I think he must have been kind of nervous too, so we've been walking on eggshells mostly."

"He seems like the kind of guy who's _always_ walking on eggshells."

Arthur glanced at her sidelong, suddenly defensive. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She shrugged, shaking her head. "I don't know, Arthur. I like Eames, I really do, but something about him just hasn't been sitting right with me. The longer I'm around him, the more I'm beginning to wonder what's going on."

Arthur sighed. "I know what you mean…" he mumbled, carding a hand through his hair. "Something's not right, but… don't worry about it. He's probably just going through some stuff right now. Maybe he just has issues with the holidays. He hasn't seen his family in over five years, you know. Maybe it has something to do with that."

She nodded, the answer seeming to satisfy her. Arthur just wished he'd felt the same.

"He doesn't hurt you, does he?" she asked then.

Arthur blinked, surprise washing over his features, and he almost laughed. "What? No… I mean, we've argued before, but he doesn't hurt me physically or anything like that. That's ridiculous."

She smiled, relieved. "Good. I just felt like I needed to make sure. I gotta look out for you, you know?"

"No, you don't," Arthur said with a half-smile. "I'm an adult now."

"You'll always be a kid to me, babe," she chuckled, smacking his shoulder. "It's part of the whole 'Mom' thing."

Arthur pretended to be comforted by the shoulder hug and the kiss on the cheek, and he waited for her to get up and wander back to her room with a sleepy goodnight before opening his laptop again and searching.

In the end, he ended up bookmarking some websites, but nothing he found led to solid answers. The possibility that Eames really did just have the flu made just as much sense as the idea that he might be using again. The sites on the internet just weren't conclusive enough, especially when he knew how unreliable the internet could be. He didn't know what to believe or not to believe, and it left him just as confused as before, if not even more unsure.

By the time morning arrived, he'd fallen asleep sideways on his mattress with his laptop on his stomach.

He only knew one thing.

To confirm his suspicions, he'd have to find Eames's stash.

* * *

It was the day that they were leaving. The snowstorms had cleared out, making it sunny and melting the inches already on the ground. Arthur had kept his eyes peeled for two days trying to find any suspicious (well _more_ suspicious) activity on Eames's end, but it seemed that Eames was doing just fine. Arthur hadn't caught him sneaking away to be by himself at all, and while that didn't mean he wasn't doing it, it put some of Arthur's thoughts to rest.

Maybe he really _was_ imagining things.

Still, he needed to be sure.

What Arthur didn't know was that Eames was down to the last dwindling bits of his stash and was trying to make it last. Arthur didn't know that Eames hadn't actually been sleeping for the past two nights because he was sweating and restless, and his legs kept spasming, and he swore he kept seeing things in the shadows. He was a hell of an actor, so he put on his best face and pretended it wasn't happening, and Arthur fell for it. For some reason, that didn't make him feel good. He wasn't even relieved when the infection behind his knee had mostly moved out, only leaving a slightly red, itchy spot in its wake.

Arthur didn't know that Eames was panicking just a little because he was almost out of heroin not just because he wanted more but because it should have been enough to last him. It should have been more than enough.

Eames was scared to know what that meant, and that didn't help him sleep either.

He was dozing on the couch, sitting up, hand still curled into some of Mal's hair while she sat next to him, sewing, when Arthur excused himself to go to the bathroom.

He climbed the stairs as silently as he could and then immediately darted to Eames's room. His hands trembled, but he found his resolve, and started searching. He dug through his pile of dirty clothes, flipped through page after page of his sketchbooks. All he found there were some rather horrifying sketches of screaming faces, completely scribbled out pages, and drawings of wounded or lopped off body parts, all in between pretty portraits of everyone in the house. Even his sketchbook was bipolar, apparently.

He opened Eames's suitcase, hands trembling, and looked through the few "clean" (they certainly didn't appear that clean but at least cleaner than the others) clothes left. He opened Eames's shampoo bottle and then his conditioner bottle and found nothing. "Fuck," he whispered, searching the clothes again. He shut the suitcase, ready to open the smaller pouch on the front when—

"What are you doing?"

Arthur completely froze. His heart leapt up into his throat, rendering him momentarily speechless.

"I said what are you doing?" Eames asked from the doorway, and his voice was unrecognizably low.

"I…" Arthur began after swallowing. "I was just… uh…"

"Why are you going through my things?" he asked, taking a step into the room, and Arthur felt a shred of panic start bubbling in his stomach.

"I—I wasn't," Arthur said, shaking his head, smiling nervously as he stood, stepping away from the bag. "I was just uh… I was looking for a shirt to wear—"

"You're already wearing a shirt."

"Ah… but um… yeah, but this one's uncomfortable."

Arthur really was a terrible liar.

…but really, it'd be difficult to not sound frantic with Eames standing there looking the way he did. His eyes were so dark they looked black, his mouth curled into a sneer, the dark shadows around his eyes making him appear more dangerous. Arthur could practically _feel_ hatred emanating off of him, and he wasn't sure what to do. Eames had shut the door to the room, the only exit.

"You're snooping," Eames said darkly. "Why are you going through my things, Arthur?"

"I'm sorry, I just thought—"

Eames shoved Arthur, and he stumbled backwards. He shoved him again, and then Arthur's back met the wall. Eames planted his hand on Arthur's chest, making it impossible for him to move. "What _were_ you thinking, exactly?" Eames asked, leaning in closely, and Arthur could see from the proximity that Eames was sweating and looking somewhat crazed, as if he hadn't slept.

"Your pupils are dilated," Arthur said quietly.

"I don't go through your things," Eames continued irritably and then tacked on desperately, "Do you hate me? Why do you hate me?"

"I don't hate you," Arthur replied, horrified, shoving at Eames. "Let go of me."

"Don't… Don't _lie_ to me," Eames growled, and his voice cracked as he said it. "I've seen the way you look at me. This is all just a big fucking game to you, isn't it? You're trying to get me attached so you can leave me in the dust, aren't you? You are!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Arthur said back, voice rising a half-octave in his panic. "You're out of your mind—"

 _I don't bloody deserve you_.

Arthur wasn't sure why he thought it, but then Eames was slamming his fist on Arthur's chest, babbling about how he was a liar.

"Bloody liar… bloody, fucking _liar_ ," Eames said, and there were tears but no sobs, and Arthur was confused and alarmed and being held against the wall this way was way too similar to that one time five years ago when…

"Get the fuck _off_ of me!" he shouted, and he punched Eames in the nose.

Eames gave way a lot quicker than Arthur expected, crumpling to the floor with his hands over his nose.

Arthur stared in shock at what he'd done, fist still extended in front of him, a smear of blood across his knuckles.

Eames looked up at Arthur, and the hatred and irritability was gone, replaced with a stunned, brokenhearted silence, as if Arthur had just confirmed what Eames had been saying. His nose was gushing blood, and the redness made his skin only look more washed out, and it was like that red was the only color in the room.

"Oh, my God…" Arthur stammered, taking a cautious step forward. "I… I'm so sorry—I—"

"Get _out_!" Eames spat. "Leave me _alone_!"

"Eames—"

"Get the fuck _out_ or I'll bloody—I'll…" he lowered his head to his knees. "I'll fucking _kill_ you."

There was a side of Arthur that knew he didn't mean it, but the sentence still made his blood run cold. He turned on his heel, swinging the door open and leaving as quickly as he could, heatedly walking each step to find everyone else in the cabin on their way up to find out where the shouting had come from.

"Arthur, what's wrong?" Cobb asked.

Arthur never stopped his stride as he passed him, mumbling, "Eames is sick."

He didn't stop until he was a mile down the road, standing and shivering in the snow because the adrenaline had made him forget his jacket… and then he cried.


	8. Grace Under Pressure (8/10)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. **Sequel to _Bite Hard_**. Arthur reunites with Eames. By the next day, they're living together. Still, with the two of them, there's always the opportunity for things to get _complicated_.

Part Eight

Arthur hadn't said anything.

Eames was somewhat disturbed by the silent treatment, though he knew he deserved it. He'd realized his mistake about two seconds after Arthur had left the room, but when he'd tried to go after him, he was bombarded with questions from angry looking Cobb. Mal was staring at him wide-eyed like she was seeing him for the first time. Olivia was nowhere to be found, probably off looking for Arthur, but Eames knew that the boy could disappear when he didn't want to be found.

"What the fuck happened?" Cobb had asked, and Eames knew that even if it had been Arthur's fault, he would have been getting all the blame from his blue-green eyes.

"A little… a little spat is all," Eames had said, trying to make light of it while he wiped blood away from his upper lip with the side of his hand. He hoped Arthur hadn't broken his nose. "Too much time cooped up together, I guess. It's all right."

"I do hope for your sake you did not overstep your boundaries, Monsieur Eames," Mal said, and the fact that she was calling him Eames explained her attitude.

"Everything is all right," Eames replied, forcing on a smile, trying to ignore the bite in both of their words.

They didn't trust him. They never did, Cobb especially. Eames couldn't blame them.

…and clearly, things were _not_ all right.

Arthur wasn't speaking to him.

Olivia was giving him the eye, like she was expecting him to do something, like he'd punched Arthur instead of the other way around, like Arthur was the one with the bruise on his not-broken-but-still-really-fucking-hurting nose.

Worst of all, Eames had a heroin problem.

Maybe it was progress to admit that he had one, but it sure didn't feel like a good thing. Clearly, he'd gotten a bit too attached to the stuff, and it was causing issue, but he told himself he'd been worse off before, that he could handle himself, that he just needed to get a grip and slow down on his usage, and then everything would be fine.

He had a bad habit, a real problem, but he wasn't an addict yet.

No, things were not fine, but they would be fine. He'd wean himself off until he was only using as much as he was before he reunited with Arthur, and then maybe quit for good just because he had better things to be spending his money on. Everything would be fine and good and back to normal. Soon.

(He hoped).

* * *

Arthur had been a wreck when his mother found him, crouched in the middle of the road, sobbing like he'd just seen his dog get hit by a car. She'd gotten him back on his feet and wrapped her coat around him, cooing soft words and giving warm hugs, but eventually she'd had to slap him to get him out of his hysteria.

He'd apologized but said nothing else.

He didn't want her to know what had taken place up in the room. He knew that she liked Eames, and he didn't want her to get the impression that Arthur didn't make wise decisions when it came to partners. He didn't want her making assumptions while he was still wondering himself. He needed to know for sure.

…Well, it wasn't like he didn't _know_ , but he couldn't _prove_ it… and that wasn't his only dilemma.

He still loved Eames, and despite the fact that he _knew_ he had a problem, and quite possibly a very severe one, there was a part of him who wanted to shove it under the rug and deny, deny, deny. He didn't want to believe that Eames had a problem because that meant that _they_ had a problem. If they had a problem, Arthur wasn't sure if he could fix it.

If he couldn't fix it… what did that mean?

It terrified him. He'd been without Eames before, but he'd never _really_ been without him. Even without intending to, he'd saved himself for him. He'd still clung onto the remnants of their short whirlwind of a relationship with the drawing and the photograph and the rose-tinted memories, the sweet words and soft touches… It had never really _ended_ for him then, even though he had said it was over. It had just been put on hold. He was always waiting, hoping for his stupid high school love to fade or for something to come out of it, and it just so happened that the latter came first.

…if Arthur couldn't fix it, if they couldn't be fixed, it would be _over_.

_Over._

_Ended_.

Arthur didn't know how he'd be able to handle himself if that happened. Eames was his first love, his first kiss, the man he'd lost his virginity too, the man he'd opened up his heart and bared his fucking _soul_ to, and for it to be over meant that all of that would be null and void. It would be meaningless.

…all of those years and emotions just… _wasted_ …

It made him feel sick, and horrified, and confused, and doubtful, and… he didn't want that to be the case and so part of him continued to long for another reason for Eames's behavior, that he was paranoid and foolish and everything was _fine_.

He probably would have been better with coming up with something if he could even look Eames in the eye, but he felt guilty for punching him in the nose and worried he might blurt out something he'd regret. So, he didn't say anything else.

Thankfully, Arthur's mother seemed to understand that it wasn't something she could fix by forcing them to talk, and so she focused on the radio and the road and didn't talk to either of them either except to ask if they were ready to stop.

Eames slept or at least pretended to be asleep for most of the drive, and Arthur sifted through pictures he'd taken by pressing the back arrow on his viewfinder. There were some really great shots, he thought. He had some really nice, professional looking ones, but he also had the somewhat awkward posed ones of everyone together, most of them taken by his mother. They only brought him one fleeting moment of peace, Mal's glowing smile nowhere near as beautiful in real life, Cobb never realizing a picture was being taken until it was too late… but Eames…

He looked so tired and thin, staring at the lens like a stranger.

A picture really was worth a thousand words.

* * *

It was nearly midnight when Arthur and Eames returned to the apartment. Arthur turned the key in the lock and it sounded unbelievably loud amongst the silence. He went first to the thermostat to turn on the heat and then to go flick on a light, but before he could reach the switch, he was grabbed gently by the wrist.

"Arthur," Eames said, voice so quiet Arthur wondered for a moment if he had heard it in his head.

He turned slowly towards Eames and stared unsurely at him in the moonlight. His expression looked tortured, magnified by the bruises under each eye from the hard hit he'd taken.

"What?" Arthur asked, trying to sound defiant, but it came out in an uncertain little whisper.

Eames inhaled through his nose, frown deepening on his face, and for a moment Arthur thought he might cry, but instead he just shook his head and said, "I'm sorry."

Arthur didn't respond, but he felt his lip quiver a little with the longing to believe him.

"I'm… sorry for fucking up your vacation and for freaking out on you and for… for everything… I'm such a wanker, and I… I really hate myself right now, and you had every bloody right to hit me, and… if you want me to leave, I… I understand."

Arthur raised his eyebrows just a little. "Wh… I never told you to… I…" he stopped himself, pulling his hand away from Eames's slack, clammy grip. "Don't be fucking stupid…"

"You don't want me to—"

"Fuck up again, and that's it," Arthur replied, finding some form of resolve.

Surely Eames would quit with an ultimatum like that.

He loved Arthur enough to do that for him, right?

"Arthur—"

"I mean it," Arthur said, feeling his hands tremble just slightly, but his gaze held strong. "You've been acting like an asshole and a psychopath, and if you piss me off again, I'm done. You're out, and you're on your own. Understand?"

Eames's shoulders slumped in something like relief. "Of course I understand… I can't believe you're actually giving me another—I… I don't bloody deserve you."

He pulled Arthur to him then, holding on for dear life, and Arthur could feel him shaking underneath his fingers.

"Why do you keep saying that?" Arthur whispered, unconsciously stroking his spine, but Eames didn't seem to hear him.

Arthur's eyes fluttered closed, and he breathed in Eames's scent… that familiar scent with the unfamiliar undertone of dirt and sweat and something else, and… even with Eames being his main cause for concern, he felt unbelievably safe inside his arms. It sent him back to five years ago when Eames held him together every time his edges frayed.

"I love you," Arthur said, and apparently Eames heard him that time, because he kissed his shoulder and mumbled the same into his sleeve.

* * *

The next day went by without incident.

The day after that, Arthur went to see Robert and give him his Christmas gift.

"You came without the boyfriend, I see," Robert said as soon as he opened the door to his apartment (which was actually the size of a decent sized house, the rich bastard), eyebrows raised in the way he usually did when he was silently appraising someone or someone's decisions. "Everything all right?"

Arthur pretended not to notice the quirk of a smirk that came and went on Robert's lips.

"Just because we fuck doesn't mean we do _everything_ together," Arthur replied, shoving inside so he wouldn't have to stand out in the cold staring into Robert's icy colored eyes. "If you'd ever had a real relationship, you'd know that only the clingy, insecure couples do that."

"Relationships are for the weak," Robert huffed, shutting out the cold.

Arthur glared at him a bit more sharply than necessary.

"I was just kidding," Robert replied irritably. "Don't look at me like that."

"Do you want your gift or not?" Arthur asked.

"Depends on what it is, what's wrong?"

Arthur sat down at Robert's kitchen table a bit harshly, chair legs scraping against the linoleum. If that wasn't a sign that something was wrong, Arthur didn't know what was. He needed to learn how to lie more easily.

"It's nothing," Arthur said anyway, hoping Robert would just let it go since he so seldom cared. "I'm fine."

Robert sat down across from him, leaning his chin on his fist and smiling the shit-eating, slasher smile that he got when he realized that he must have been right about something and was just waiting for the argument to start so that he could prove it. Arthur was already focusing heavily on his words to make sure he wouldn't give Robert the satisfaction.

"So, what classes are you taking next semester? You have signed up for them, right?" Arthur asked, digging his schedule out of his pocket to hand over.

"Of course I have," Robert replied, quickly reading over Arthur's classes. "I mean, it really doesn't matter since, with my father being the dean and all, I could get into any class I want, but I can fucking handle myself. We have two classes together."

"Really? That's all?" Arthur asked, retrieving the schedule.

"I'm taking a lot of night classes," Robert shrugged. "They're a bit more fast-paced, and it's not like I've got anything better to do on a weeknight when all the beautiful people are inside studying."

"If you wanted to party, you should have gone to a party school," Arthur replied, slapping a Starbucks gift card onto the table. "Merry Christmas. This should help you stay awake."

"Gracias," he said, immediately digging out his three hundred dollar wallet to slide it inside one of the pockets. "I don't mind drinking on your money once in a while. So, how are things with the boyfriend?"

"Fine," Arthur replied curtly, getting up to grab a drink out of the fridge, mostly to continue avoiding eye contact. "Things are fine."

"You sure don't sound convinced."

"Everything's _fine_ , Robert. Stop trying to hear things in my voice that aren't there."

Robert snorted. "They _are_ there. Are you really that much in de—"

Arthur slammed two sodas down on the tabletop. "I'm _not_. Everything is _fine_. I'm tired of you trying to poke holes in my relationship. You don't even know him."

"I've only spoken to you about him like… twice…" Robert said, eyebrows furrowing. "You're the one getting all pissed off. Can't a friend genuinely be concerned about another friend? What kind of angle do you think I'm trying to find?"

"You didn't like him from the moment you met him, and you think that everyone should feel the same way you do, so you're trying to convince me that he's trouble," Arthur grumbled, cracking the top of the soda only for it to foam over the edge and force him to frantically sip away at it.

"You really think I'm that much of a conniving son of a bitch?" Robert asked honestly.

In fact, his voice was so honest that it threw Arthur off for a minute, and then it made him feel guilty.

"I'm not," Robert continued, propping his head up with his fist. "I might give off that impression sometimes, but I'm not. No offense, but he looks kind of…" he paused to come up with a better word than the one he was thinking, "like trouble, so I thought you should be forewarned. I've fucked around with guys that looked like that before, and it was some of the biggest mistakes of my life."

"W-what'd they do?" Arthur asked hesitantly.

"One of them stole my television set, and another guy waited until after we'd had sex to tell me he had hepatitis."

Arthur's mouth fell slack.

"I didn't get it, if that's what you're wondering," Robert said with a roll of his eyes. "I was lucky, I guess. I always protect myself now at least. Have you been tested recently?"

"I—Well, uh…"

"Have you, or haven't you? It's not that difficult a question."

"The only one I've ever had sex with is Eames…"

He expected Robert to raise an eyebrow, snort, laugh at him, something, but he didn't. "How many people has Eames had sex with?"

"He says he hasn't slept with anyone since me… only like… blow jobs and stuff… and he only had one partner before me, um—his ex-girlfriend, Roxanne."

"Yeah, and how many people did _she_ have sex with?" Robert continued, and Arthur realized that he was attempting to make a point.

"I don't know…" Arthur admitted. Eames had told him that she'd sold herself for drug money. It could have been dozens if not more. "Eames said he'd been tested since they broke up though."

"You know, the funny thing about words is that they can often be put together in a lie," Robert said, finally opening his own can of cola and sipping at it. "How do you know that any of those things he said were true?"

"He wouldn't—"

Actually, he'd never gotten an answer to the question when he'd asked Eames if he would lie to him.

"Also, you are aware you can get STDs from more than just sex, right?"

Arthur did know that, but he had refused to think about it.

"Eames doesn't do anything that—" he tried to say, but the real reason why he was upset was _exactly_ that… and he believed Robert now knew that too. To try to save his floundering confidence, he said sternly, "he's _not_ a drug addict."

"Whatever you say," Robert said, lifting his hands, "but all I'm going to say to that is if it looks like a duck and it sounds like a duck, it's probably a duck."

"He's _not_ ," Arthur tried again, and it came out sounding more desperate than he'd intended. "If he was, I would have known by now."

…but he did know…

He just didn't have any proof and therefore still had the ability to convince himself otherwise.

"Why? Is he actually living with you?" Robert asked, and he didn't sound mocking or condescending at all. He actually sounded _concerned_. It made Arthur unconsciously worry about his own safety.

"So… So what if he is? He's—I mean, we're a couple. Couples do stuff like that."

"Yeah, if they've been dating for a long time, but you guys just hooked up like… two months ago or so, right?"

"We were together before."

"Why'd you break it off last time?" Robert asked, and Arthur could tell he was waiting for him to spill about a past drug problem.

"I was sixteen and he was twenty-two, and I was trying to protect him."

"Oh," Robert said, apparently not expecting that even though he'd accused him of being jailbait before. Maybe he hadn't believed Arthur for real. He didn't know.

"I never stopped loving him though," Arthur tacked on, as if it would make a difference to Robert who didn't believe in love, as if it would make Arthur's suspicions go away and fix everything.

Robert sighed, running a hand over his hair. "Has anything gone missing yet?"

It made Arthur unreasonably angry. "Just because your television got stolen, doesn't mean—"

"What about Eames himself?" Robert asked, and that shut Arthur up for a long time.

"I don't—"

"So he acts exactly the way he did before. He's completely peachy and nice and fun and all that shit," Robert said skeptically.

"N—no, but people aren't like that all the time…"

He was grasping at straws he'd already grasped at before.

Robert stood. "Get up. I'm taking you to get tested down at the free clinic."

"No!" Arthur shouted.

"Yeah, I am, and if you refuse I'm just going to go ask your boyfriend up front, and then I'll call your mom and friends and tell them. Now, let's _go_."

"—but—"

"If you trusted your boyfriend completely, you wouldn't even be in this mess, so stop feeling guilty about it and get it taken care of. You don't look like you've slept, so get this off of your chest at least."

"I trust Eames."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"One hundred percent?"

Arthur hesitated and then finally admitted, "…no…"

Robert placed his hand between Arthur's shoulder blades and lightly shoved him to the door. "This is just my opinion, but you should really be rethinking your options right now."

"You can take your opinion and shove it up your ass, Robert," Arthur replied bitterly because he could still be angry about him being right.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Don't worry. They keep this whole doctor-patient confidentiality code. Nobody will find out if you have something or don't unless you tell them."

* * *

Eames had told himself that he'd wean himself off of the stuff, and yet here he was not a day after getting home and already knocking on Vince's door.

"So, you're back in town," Vince said when he opened the door. "Did you have a fun X-mas?"

"Vince, I don't have any money," Eames said guiltily. He'd searched Arthur's entire apartment, even under the couch cushions, and contemplated pawning some of Arthur's super nice things, but then Arthur would figure out what was going on.

He picked at the skin on the tip of his thumb where he'd bitten after chewing all of his nails down to the quick.

"You expect me to do something about that?" Vince asked but still let Eames inside. There was a young man in Vince's kitchen with scraggly hair and the build of a skeleton, heating a spoon over a flame on the stove.

"Who's that?" Eames asked.

"A customer who actually paid for his shit, so why are you here? I don't want any of your crummy paintings, and I don't do the whole 'I owe you this much money' shit."

"I know," Eames said, and while, when he'd first discovered that he was out of money, he'd assumed it was a sign to stop using and it was a good thing, it certainly didn't feel that way now. He'd tried to paint, but the tremors in his hands made it look like absolute shit, and he had no inspiration anyways, only managing a rough smattering on a canvas that looked eerily like Roxanne.

"And… why are you here?" Vince asked again, growing impatient.

"Well, I ah… I thought since um…"

"You thought that since you and I go way back that I'd make an exception for you?" he asked, and Eames nodded pathetically.

"Sort of… I mean, I used to buy from you back when—"

"Roxy was around, yeah I know. What the fuck happened to her anyway?"

"She died."

"Oh, right, I think I remember that now. Sorry, Eames-y, but no can do. You know how it works. I gotta eat, and favors don't put food on the table."

Vince actually could deal with eating more, Eames thought.

He would have been ready to give up and go if he didn't feel like he was dying.

"I'll pay for both next time. I just need to sell a painting and that should cover it—" Next time?

Vince chewed on his chapped bottom lip, seeming to think over Eames's offer.

"You know I'm good for it," Eames said, wiping at his nose with his wrist. A bead of sweat slipped down his temple, even though it was freezing outside. He was getting desperate, he realized, and that made him feel worse than he already did.

"I can't just _give_ you anything," Vince said, digging out a cigarette and lighting it, "but you are a pretty good customer, so I guess I could give you a break, being that you look so shitty and all, and I mean we're friends right?"

They weren't, but Eames said, "Yes. Friends. Good friends."

"—and friends do stuff for each other."

"Y…yeah."

Vince paused for another moment, watching the smoke from his cigarette drift into the air. "Tell you what," Vince said, grinning his horrible teeth at Eames, "if you suck my cock, I'll give you a dime bag. No charge."

"What? I… no, I can't do that," Eames said.

"Roxanne did it back in the day, and you didn't seem to mind then."

"Yeah, but Roxanne—"

Roxanne was a heroin addict.

An _addict_.

"But Roxanne what?" Vince asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Nothing."

"Do we have a deal, Sunshine?"

Eames swallowed heavily, and he could feel waves of nausea continuing to wash over him, could feel the ache of his muscles and bones, could feel the beads of cold sweat forming on his brow and under his arms, could feel the dull sting from the almost-healed injection site on the back of his knee…

"I'm a bloody mess…" Eames mumbled.

 _"You never deserved—_ "

Eames cut off the memory before it got too far into his skull. "Fine. Once."

He didn't think about anything while Vince led him back to that same room where the girl had slept with the needle in her arm.

He didn't think about Arthur or Roxanne while Vince unzipped his fly.

He didn't think about Yusuf or Ariadne or Nash or Julia or Mal or Cobb or Olivia while he took him into his mouth.

He didn't think about the tremors or the sweats or the insomnia or the guilt or the pain in his joints or the nausea or the runny nose or the busted nose or the look on Arthur's face when he'd pinned him against the wall.

Actually, he did. He thought about all of those things.

…but mostly he just thought about the fact that he was an addict.

 _"You never deserved to be—_ "

He silenced the thought again.


	9. Grace Under Pressure (9/10)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. **Sequel to _Bite Hard_**. Arthur reunites with Eames. By the next day, they're living together. Still, with the two of them, there's always the opportunity for things to get _complicated_.

Part Nine

Eames had never felt so terrible and dissatisfied after shooting up as he did at that very moment.

There was relief of pain but absolutely no joy in the rush. He just felt…

 _Sick_.

 _Disgusting_.

There wasn't a word in the English language to explain how horrible he felt.

He'd gone too far this time.

It hadn't even been two fucking days, and he'd already fucked up. He'd gone too far, and Arthur was going to find out, and he was going to lose him forever.

He was going to continue to spiral downwards into his addiction and keep sucking cock for more drugs until he lost Arthur and ended up dying on the streets and—

The idea made him so sick with terror that he vomited into an empty alleyway and had to sit down for a few minutes.

He'd sucked Vince's prick.

For drugs.

He had been unable to stop himself, but he knew what that meant.

He'd chosen the drugs over Arthur. He hadn't wanted to, but he had. He was ruining the one good thing in his life because of the drugs, and he was absolutely revolted by himself.

He decided he would have been better off dead.

…and the thoughts of death started following him all the way back to the apartment, terrible and fascinating in their power and imagery. He thought first of his own death, of an infected wound in his arm with the needle still jabbed inside, sprawled on the floor with white eyes staring blankly at the wall and lines of drool and snot crusted to his face. He thought of the chill settling over his bones, the breath leaking out of his lips as his heart slowed to a stop, of the blueness that would tint his skin and the heaviness he would feel just before he stopped feeling altogether.

He had it shakily sketched out on a canvas within minutes after he'd gotten inside, curled up in the corner rather than at his easel so that he could watch the door. It was only after he'd gotten paint onto the canvas that he realized the perspective was disturbingly skewed and so painted over it with black acrylic until that was all the canvas was and then started messily refilling it with white. The perspective continued to distort until he just gave up and threw it across the room, sending it clattering to the floor and surely leaving a mark on the wood of Arthur's floor. He pulled his knees up to his chest, buried his face in them, and cried.

* * *

Arthur didn't want Robert to think that he had any doubts, but by the time the doctor had left to go test his results, he was shaking so badly that he was afraid he might just fall off of the table.

For a long moment Robert seemed to not know what to do, but then he awkwardly placed his hand on Arthur's shoulder, and Arthur looked at him as if he'd sprouted a second head.

"Just because I don't believe in love doesn't mean I'm completely heartless," he replied, seeming to attempt to lighten the mood a little. "It's going to be all right."

Arthur sniffed, setting his jaw and said, "Thanks."

Robert shrugged, letting his hand drop when Arthur stopped trembling so violently. "I didn't have anything better to do."

The doctor returned with her demure smile, and Arthur straightened his back and tried to look presentable. He didn't want her getting the idea that he was sleeping around just because he asked for a test.

"Your results should be back in about 48 hours," she explained. "We can call you, or you can come up here yourself."

Arthur felt his heart sink. "That long?"

"I'm afraid so."

"You can call him," Robert said, helping Arthur off of the table with a light shove. "Do you need any more information?"

She shook her head. "No, sir, everything we need is on the papers you filled out."

"Thanks," Robert said for Arthur and led him back out to the car.

Arthur sat down in the passenger seat, staring at his lap, unable to feel the chill in the air. He felt like he was numb to the core.

He had to play the waiting game and hope for the best. He didn't like the idea of sitting and hoping… Forty-eight hours gave him just enough time to come up with the worst possible result in his mind…

"Oh, God…" he whispered, pressing his hand over his eyes and taking a few deep breaths. "What the fuck am I doing here?"

"Don't worry about it. Forty-eight hours isn't that long of a time, and it's precautionary."

Arthur would have been a bit more confused by how Robert was being so pleasant, but he just couldn't get away from the swirling, horrible thoughts in his brain, whispering words like HIV or Hepatitis in his ear, mumbling _don't come crying to me when he fucks you over_.

_What if I'm sick?_

_What if Eames is shooting up with other people and he made me sick?_

_What if we're both sick?_

_What if we die?_

A headache blossomed brutally inside of his skull with no warning, and he felt himself start to shake again. He tried to breathe and calm down, but he felt like he was choking.

 _No, no, no_ … he thought, and he looked at Robert who hadn't started the car yet and realized that he was staring at him.

"Arthur," Robert said, but he sounded like he was underwater.

He couldn't breathe.

He was going to die.

Even if he started breathing again, he was going to get sick and die and it was all Eames's fault.

-and Eames was going to die too. Arthur didn't want Eames to die. He didn't want him to die. He needed to hold onto him so that he wouldn't die—he'd left Eames alone and now Eames was going to die—

"Arthur, Arthur," Robert said again, and Arthur realized that he was screaming, tears rolling hot down his cheeks, and he couldn't breathe, and he was going to die.

"Arthur, just breathe," Robert said, calmly but sternly. "Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth slowly."

Arthur shook his head, looking desperately for some kind of escape. The car was too small but the doors were locked and he couldn't remember how to unlock them because he couldn't breathe and he was _scared_.

"Breathe, Arthur," Robert repeated, his voice distant.

Arthur took in a deep breath and let it out shakily, and it relieved him a little to know he could breathe again, so he did it again and again until, ten minutes later, he'd finally calmed down.

"Are you all right?" Robert asked hesitantly when Arthur silenced.

Arthur sniffed, dropping his chin to his chest and wiping at his eyes with the heel of his hand. "I don't know what came over me," he sobbed. He didn't know why he couldn't stop crying.

"Have you had a panic attack before?" Robert asked.

"Once… like… five years ago… after my principal tried to sexually assault me."

Robert didn't respond to that, instead starting the car. "You need to just lie down for a while. I'm taking you back to my place. You can go home later, okay?"

"—but Eames is there by himself—"

"He'll be fine. You just need to keep breathing and stay calm. Don't let your thoughts scare you like that. Everything's going to be okay, all right? Do you need me to take you to the hospital?"

"No… No, I'm okay… I'll be okay… I just… I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm okay right now," Arthur corrected, resting his head against the cold window. "Let's just get away from the place…"

Robert nodded and pulled out of the parking lot.

Arthur counted his breaths in his head while Robert drove, focusing intently on the numbers even through the blinding pain of his headache. It seemed to take an eternity to get back to Robert's apartment, and when they finally did make it back, he barely made it through the door before collapsing onto his couch.

"Do you need some aspirin or something?" Robert asked, and his voice still sounded like an echo that made the blood pulse more heavily behind his eyes. Arthur could only nod in response, swallow them dry, and fall asleep.

He dreamed of gunfire and of flames and Eames. He dreamed of the disappointed faces of his friends and family and of Robert's impending 'I told you so', and he dreamed of dying in a hospital bed and of Eames dying in the bathroom of Arthur's apartment.

When he woke up, Robert was making dinner for himself while reading, and Arthur felt like he'd been asleep for weeks, and yet he was still exhausted.

"Are you staying for dinner?" Robert asked lightly, never turning to see Arthur but somehow knowing he was awake. Maybe his hearing was just that good (or Arthur wasn't as quiet as he thought). "It's stir fry."

"You've never offered to let me stay for dinner before."

"You've never been hear until the evening. Seriously, why do you sound so accusatory? Do you really think I'm that much of an asshole?"

"I don't think it," Arthur replied flatly.

Robert smirked a little, setting down his book, probably something pretentious. "I imagine if I tell you that I pity your predicament, you'll get pissed off, correct?"

"Maybe after the shock wears off."

"Save your sass for someone who's affected by it, Arthur," Robert replied, moving the wok away to pour the stir fry onto a large plate. "We're _friends_ , Arthur. You're probably the only one I've got because most people aren't worth wasting my time on for too long. Believe it or not, I value you as a person and want good things to happen to you."

Arthur didn't know what to say to that, so he sat down at the table and stared at his hands. There was a part of him that didn't want to go back to his apartment and face Eames, a part of him that wanted to just stay with the unusually nice Robert and try to forget about all the shit that was coming his way. When he'd been a teenager he'd had the tendency to just let things happen and not say anything in order to pretend it wasn't happening, and it seemed he still hadn't outgrown the habit even when he knew it never brought forth the desired effect.

"Here," Robert said, dropping a plate down in front of Arthur. "Eat."

It was only then that Arthur realized he'd resumed another bad habit he'd had in his teenage years—not eating. He hadn't had a meal that day because he'd simply been preoccupied.

Arthur ran a hand through his hair and dug the pair of chopsticks Robert handed to him into the food. "I'm such a fucking _mess_."

"You really are," Robert agreed, eating with his chopsticks like he'd been doing it his whole life. Arthur wondered if he had some kind of Asian lover somewhere who taught him how to use them, but really Robert was just a perfectionist at everything. "Considering you're actually pretty smart, you sure do make some really dumb decisions."

"Being with Eames isn't a dumb decision," Arthur grumbled. He didn't really have much fight in him at the moment. "You can't understand because you think love is stupid."

"You're not really proving me wrong here," Robert mentioned, and Arthur would have been angrier if he hadn't felt a little relief that Robert was acting normally again.

"Eames saved me all those years ago, Robert… I know that sounds dumb, but he did… I was just… spiraling out of control, about to collapse under all the pressure I was living with. My mom was an alcoholic, my dad was abusive, I didn't have anyone to talk to, and I didn't know how to feel things or talk about myself, I didn't—have any hopes or dreams or anything. I just… existed. It was miserable… but he changed that."

Robert moved the food around on his plate. "So, just because he saved your life, you're going to let him ruin it now?"

"That's not true."

"Are you sure?"

Arthur clenched his jaw and found himself saying completely honestly, "I am."

"You're a stubborn little bitch, aren't you?"

"Have you met yourself?"

"You ever think that I perhaps hold an opinion of myself that's far more superior than necessary, therefore rendering any idea of me being bitchy invalid?"

"Well, at least you're aware of it," Arthur said and managed to at least crack a small smile, and Robert chuckled in response.

* * *

Arthur was somewhat grateful that he didn't drive to Robert's apartment since it was only a couple of blocks from his. He didn't think he'd be much of a driver since he was so on edge. Still, it was cold, light flurries still dusting the parked cars on the street, and he thought for a moment about stepping into the Starbucks to get something to warm himself up.

Just as he was about to step inside, he swore he spotted…

…no, it couldn't be…

"Hey… Hey, Yusuf!" Arthur shouted at the familiar looking man across the street. He looked up, looking around for the source of the voice, and Arthur jogged across the street when he was sure traffic was clear. "Hey," he said again as he approached, "it really is you, isn't it? You look exactly the same, wow."

"Do I know you?" Yusuf asked, wearing an expression like was trying to figure out just _where_ he knew him from.

"Oh," Arthur said. "Oh, you don't recognize me, duh." He grabbed the long strands of his hair and pulled it back behind the nape of his neck with one hand and lifted his glasses off of his face, flashing a quick smile. "It's me. Arthur. Eames's _friend_."

Realization dawned on Yusuf after a moment, and he said, "Oh… _Oh_! Wow, you're—wow! Look at you."

Arthur smiled sheepishly, slipping his glasses back on and releasing his hair to put his hands in his pockets. "Yeah… It's been a long time."

"Yeah like… what… four…"

"Five years."

"Five years! Bloody Hell, wow. I'm so old."

Arthur laughed lightly, and the two of them walked to the Starbucks to talk. "So what are you up to these days?" Arthur asked, buying both of their drinks for them.

"I work at a laboratory, experimenting with new chemicals to help cure diseases and enjoying all of my free time with my wife."

"Oh, so you're married now," Arthur said and caught himself before saying _Eames said something about you having a girlfriend_

"Yes indeed," Yusuf said proudly as they sat down, and Arthur realized it was the same table he and Eames had reunited at. He glanced over at the wall where Eames's painting of sunflowers hung, warm and summery despite the weather outside. "Married a year next month."

"Congrats," Arthur said, toasting Yusuf before sipping at the drink.

"So, what have you been doing? You're not getting into any trouble now, are you?"

"School," Arthur shrugged, not answering the question because he couldn't necessarily say he was staying out of trouble at this point. "I really am an art student now. I'm studying to become a photojournalist."

"Very nice," Yusuf said. "Eames always said you had a knack for it."

Arthur nodded and stared down into his drink somewhat solemnly.

"I ah—haven't seen him in a long time," Yusuf said quietly. "We sort of had a falling out."

"Oh, really?" Arthur asked hesitantly, and he felt himself grip more tightly to his cup. "What happened?"

Yusuf looked at Arthur as if he was contemplating whether it was a good idea to tell him or not and then shook his head, "I don't know… he was living with me because he couldn't afford to keep his own place, and when you live with someone it gets really obvious that something is wrong really quickly."

"What was wrong?" Arthur asked, swallowing heavily.

"He seemed to fall off the wagon again. I caught him shooting up when I came home early one night. We had words, and I ended up kicking him out, and I haven't seen him since… I feel terrible for doing that… I should have tried to help him." He sighed and dropped his head into his hands. "Some friend I am… but I was just so _angry_. He had promised me, _promised_ me that he would never use that junk again."

Arthur couldn't stop himself.

He started to cry.

"Hey… what? No, don't cry," Yusuf said awkwardly. "It's not like you could have done anything. Really, I'm the one who should be crying."

Arthur shook his head, rubbing at his eyes with his sleeves. "It's not that… It's not… I just… I knew it. I knew…"

"What do you mean?" Yusuf asked, not accusatory but definitely confused.

Arthur swallowed down his grief in order to talk, but he was still shaking. "I… I reunited with him recently, but… I didn't want to believe that anything was wrong. I knew, I _knew_ something was wrong."

"You two are together again?" Yusuf asked gently.

Arthur nodded weakly. "He's back at my apartment right now… I… I just thought he looked bad because he was living on the streets, not because he was back on the drugs. God, I was so _stupid_."

"No, no," Yusuf said getting up to drag Arthur to the bathroom because people were starting to stare. "Calm down." He sat Arthur down on the toilet and handed him a wad of toilet paper to wipe his nose on. "What's going on, Arthur? Tell me everything."

* * *

"I can't paint anymore," Eames mumbled to no one, lying on the floor of Arthur's apartment. "I can't do anything but stick this shit into my veins."

A snort.

Eames raised his head off of the floor to see where it had come from and spotted Roxanne leaning against the doorway to Arthur's bedroom.

"You're dead," Eames said, "You're not supposed to be here."

"Fuck off, T," she said smirking as she stomped towards him in his old red Doc Martins. "So, this is your new place, huh? You never let me stay in a nice place like this."

"We couldn't afford a place like this," Eames said. He had no fight in him. He didn't care.

She scratched at the infected wound on her arm and looked down at him. "So, Arthur, huh? You think he actually cares about you?"

"He does," Eames said quietly. "I know he does."

She snorted again, smirking her painted red lips at him and crouching down so that he could see her more clearly. She looked so skinny and so tired and so old and ugly. "Bullshit, T. You and I both know that's bullshit. He doesn't care about you. Nobody does. Nobody ever did. This is all just a big game, and you're just a big all-day sucker."

"Don't say that."

"You know it's true," she said, straddling Eames's waist and leaning over so that they were nose to nose. "Your parents abandoned you, Yusuf kicked you out, I had to fucking _die_ to get away from you, and you think that Arthur actually likes you? I mean, look at what you did! You got him so scared that he punched you in the nose! He probably broke it. You're such an asshole, you know?"

"He let me stay… he loves me. He told me he loves me."

"He just wants to see you fall. I mean, Arthur's a super great guy so why the fuck would he want to be with _you_? Look at you. You're nothing but a pathetic drug head, and you can't even do anything. You can't even paint and that's the only thing you were _marginally_ good at. Arthur's good-looking and smart and has all the best stuff going for him, and you're _nothing_. You don't deserve him."

"I know that…" Eames whimpered, shutting his eyes because he didn't want to look at her anymore. "I bloody know that. I told him that, and he said he wants to be with me… He makes me happy, Roxanne…"

"I bet he'd be done with you if he found out you were sucking dick for smack. He doesn't love you. He _tolerates_ you because he hasn't realized that he can do better yet, and you hold onto him because he makes you _happy_? That's so selfish, T. Don't you remember what I told you before I died? Don't you remember?"

"Stop, please…"

"You remember. Tell me that you remember."

"Roxanne…"

" _You don't deserve to be happy_."

Eames tried to shove her off of him, but she wouldn't budge. "Stop saying that. Please stop saying that!"

"All you've ever been is a thorn in the side of everyone you've encountered. You bring trouble wherever you go. You fucked up Arthur into thinking that his relationship with you was _normal_ when he was a fucking teenager and you were an adult. You can't seem to get through life unless you're doing something illegal, I guess, and you dragged him into your fucked up little world. Do you really, honestly, think you deserve to be _happy_?"

"No!" Eames shouted, voice cracking. "I don't deserve it, but I still want it, okay? Does that make you happy you bloody harpy? I can't help but want what I want… I could be more, couldn't I? I could change and be something better…"

"Of course not, T. You're a pathetic loser, and you'll never be anything better than that. Stop being such a selfish bastard and let Arthur have something better. He's better off if you're alone. Hell, he's better off if you're dead. Just put yourself out of his misery already."

"Leave me _alone_!" Eames whimpered, struggling to free himself. "I can't, I _can't_ —I know your right, but I don't bloody… Maybe it's true, but he said he didn't want to be with anyone else. He _said_ —"

"He _lied_ to you, dumbass. You know how that works, right? It's what you do to him every day. He doesn't love you. He doesn't even know who you are."

" _Stop it_!" Eames shouted, scrambling forward to find that she was gone. The lighting had changed in the room as the sun had gone down, and he was alone.

It was a dream.

It was a message.


	10. Grace Under Pressure (10/10)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. **Sequel to _Bite Hard_**. Arthur reunites with Eames. By the next day, they're living together. Still, with the two of them, there's always the opportunity for things to get _complicated_.

Part Ten

Arthur opened the door to his apartment to find a dark living room.

"Eames?" he called out hesitantly and took a step inside to find it stuck there from half-dried paint. He found the light switch and flipped it on. There were tubes and cans of paint spilled everywhere, splattered across every fresh canvas Eames had had against the wall. The painting he'd done of the two of them had fallen off of its hanging place above the fireplace and now had a fresh splash of black across both of their faces.

Arthur toed off of his shoes and lightly stepped around the mess, and he could hear Yusuf quietly breathing from the foyer. He turned back and mouthed a silent, "Wait here." Yusuf didn't seem to be interested in going anywhere.

"Eames?" Arthur said again, pushing open the bathroom door. There was no one inside, but his nail kit lay open on the floor, revealing a burned spoon, a lighter, a hypodermic needle, and a partially used dime bag of heroin. It was as if he'd thrown it down, unable to look at it without disgust.

Arthur's heart started to race a little, and he pulled back the shower curtain just to make sure Eames wasn't there. He wasn't.

"Fuck," He whispered, lightly treading across the floor again until he opened the bedroom door.

Eames sat in the middle of Arthur's bed, covered in paint and with his head on his knees. The sheets were covered in paint handprints and paint footprints.

"Eames," Arthur said quietly. "Eames, what happened here?"

Eames lifted his head from his knees to reveal streams of tears mixed with the paint on his face. "I was trying to change…" Eames said tonelessly. "I kept trying to paint over myself, but it never worked, and I got upset… and I made a mess… I misbehaved. I'm sorry." He buried his face again.

"It's okay," Arthur said, swallowing heavily. His heart was pounding against his chest, but he tried to ignore it.

"No it isn't," Eames said, voice as expressionless as before. "It's not all right. You're going to be mad at me and send me away because I'm such a selfish pathetic loser."

"That's not true, Eames," Arthur said slowly, taking a few steps towards the bed and reaching out to grab one of the arms Eames had grasped around his knees. As he pulled it away, a razor blade fell from between his fingers, and Arthur realized that where he was holding Eames's sleeve it was sticky and not from paint. "Eames… Eames, did you cut yourself again?"

"You're better off if I'm dead," Eames mumbled into his jeans. "I'm no good. I don't deserve happiness. I don't deserve to live."

Arthur felt panic surging up the back of his spine, but he reminded himself that he needed to try to stay calm. He had a feeling that blowing up at Eames would only aggravate the situation, even though he sort of wanted.

"What's that in your other hand there, Eames?" he asked.

Arthur recognized it almost immediately after he'd said it.

It was the photograph he'd taken of Eames five years ago, the one he had hidden in the frame behind the drawing Eames had done. He looked over to where he'd left the framed drawing to find it on the floor, separated from the paint-smudged, cracked frame.

"Let me see your arm, Eames," Arthur whispered. "Give me the picture and show me your arm, okay?"

Eames didn't fight him when he pulled his arms away from his knees. The picture fluttered free of his grasp, bloody fingerprints smirching the corners, and fell to the bedspread. Arthur pushed up the blood-soaked sleeve of his right arm to find five bright red cuts crookedly dragged across the old scars there.

"Why'd you hurt yourself?" Arthur asked, and his voice hitched in the middle.

"You're better off if I'm dead," Eames repeated. "I'm nothing but a liar and a dirty loser, and I don't deserve you. I don't deserve happiness."

"Who told you that?"

"Roxanne."

"Eames… Roxanne is dead," Arthur reminded, pressing hard on the cuts to try and stop the bleeding. They were fresh but fortunately they didn't look too deep. He'd apparently been shaking too much.

"I know, but before that, she—she told me that I don't… and she was right… Look at what I've done… I can't even be that person in the picture. You don't even know who I am. How can you love someone like that?"

"I do know you," Arthur tried, and he was focusing on counting his breaths. _Stay calm_ , he told himself. _Just stay calm_.

He hoped Yusuf would get impatient and come help him; he was too afraid of what Eames would do if he knew he was standing out there waiting.

"You don't," Eames mumbled, shaking his head before dropping it to Arthur's shoulder. "I'm such a selfish bastard… I should have just left you alone in that coffee shop, should have never said anything to you. You were so beautiful and perfect… you were always so beautiful and perfect, and I smeared it and shit all over it. I've ruined you…"

Arthur pressed Eames's bloody arm against his chest to get more pressure on it, not caring about the blood he was surely getting on his jacket and shirt. "Stop talking like that because it's bullshit."

Eames pulled his arm away, pulled his whole body away from Arthur and curled up on the bed. "I don't expect you to understand…"

"Eames," Arthur said, forcing himself to be sterner because the calm voice wasn't working. "I know about the drugs. I've known about them for a while now. It's not exactly a big secret. I didn't have any proof, so I didn't say anything, but I knew."

Eames said nothing, so Arthur continued. "I knew, okay? I was trying to find proof so that we could talk about it. I didn't want to be wrong and upset you… I… yeah, I was upset about it, but—I don't want to yell at you, and I don't want you to die. I want to help you, Eames. I love you, and I want to help you."

"You don't love me… Nobody ever loved me…" Eames whimpered, cradling his arm against his chest. "I don't deserve the help. I deserve to suffer and die because I'm so fucking worthless…"

Arthur couldn't take it anymore. He stood from the mattress and stamped his foot. " _Eames_ ," he barked, "Look at me."

Eames did, slowly and hesitantly.

"Have you really been holding onto this idea that you're unlovable all of this time? Is this why you self-destruct? Have you been trying to make me angry so I'd go away?"

"I don't know," Eames mumbled in a way that confirmed it for Arthur. He may not have been doing it consciously, but he _was_.

"Well, it's not going to work," Arthur told him, and he realized that he was no longer trembling or having to count his breaths. Somewhere in his words he'd found some sort of strength and resolve. He realized that he needed to be strong and hold himself together for Eames since clearly Eames was in no state to be strong.

It was a little bizarre, actually, being the strong one. He'd always leaned on Eames for support, but now Eames needed him.

He owed him more than that, but it would have to do.

"Why do you stay?" Eames asked, eyes wide and brokenhearted. "Don't you see how stupid you're being? Look at me! I'm a bloody drug addict, and I can't do _anything_. I can't even paint… You can't love me. I'm a horrible human being, and you deserve something better than… _this_."

Arthur shrugged. "I don't know, Eames. I don't. If I was a third party in all this, I'd probably agree with you, say I was being an idiot and clearly I don't know what I'm doing, but it's not the same. I'm here, and I'm not running away from this because you need to understand something about me and something about you too."

"What's that?"

"That I love you, and that you deserve happiness."

"No, I don't—"

"Yes, you do," Arthur said, and his voice was kinder than he'd ever heard out of himself, a smile finding its way to his lips despite the state of his apartment and of his boyfriend. "Eames, you're a great person… You're kind, and you're always worried about everyone else, and you're creative and talented and charming. When you hold me or say my name, it makes me feel like I'm the only person on the planet, that I'm more important than anyone else. Even though we've kissed a million times, my toes still curl when you do it, and I still tingle. Eames… don't you remember? All those years ago how fucked up I was? How lonely and awkward I was?... You made me not feel so alone. You saw me. You _saved_ me, Eames, and I will never _ever_ stop loving you because of that.

"You're not useless, Eames. You're not pathetic. You're not a loser. You think I'm this amazing perfect thing, but… I wouldn't have been this if it weren't for you. You mean everything to me. I remember everything we've done together as clear as a bell. They're my most precious memories… They make me happy. _You_ make me happy."

"I make you miserable."

"Of course we have our moments, but I know that the good outweighs the bad. You can't change my mind, Eames. I'm a stubborn little bitch."

Eames rose up off of the bed, sitting on his knees, still cradling his arm, and he looked devastated and confused. "You're an idiot."

"You've been telling me that since the day we met. We're both pretty dumb, actually, so I guess we're perfect for each other. Eames… You deserve to be happy. You're the best guy I know, and don't let something that one person said a long time ago make you think otherwise. She's not here, Eames… but I am. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere. I'm not walking away from this, even if it's the biggest mistake of my life, because I know… I _know_ in my heart that this is what I want. Maybe it's selfish for you to want to be with me, but can't we both be selfish and just _be_ with each other? I don't care about any of your faults because you certainly looked through mine. We'll get through this, but you have to let me help you, Eames."

"You don't know me… how can you love someone you don't know?"

"I _do_ know you, Eames. You're the one who doesn't know yourself… Please… try looking at you through my eyes. A wise person told me once that all I needed… was a different perspective."

Eames burst into tears and flung his arms around Arthur's neck in unabashed loud sobs, and Arthur held onto him for dear life, stroking a hand through his hair.

"Fuck… Arthur… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…" he whimpered.

"It's okay, Eames. It's going to be okay… Roxanne was wrong about you. She was always wrong about you. She was blinded by drugs and hate… I'm going to take care of you, and we're going to get you better, okay?"

"I've ruined your apartment—"

"It's just stuff, Eames. You're more important to me than that."

Eames sniffed, pulling his face away from Arthur's shoulder to look into his eyes. "God, I love you," he said.

Arthur kissed him lightly. "I love you too."

"I'm fucked up, Arthur. I've done some things I'll forever regret—"

"It was the drugs, Eames. I know what stuff like that does to people. I forgive you for everything, even the things you haven't told me. I understand."

Eames kissed him again and cradled himself against Arthur's neck as if he was a child seeking comfort from his mother. "Please help me, Arthur."

Arthur pulled away from his hug and took his hand, leading him back into the living room where Yusuf was still waiting, although he'd come further into the room, kicking things out of the way.

"Yusuf," Eames said, "What are you doing here?"

"Making up for being a shitty friend," Yusuf replied. "I'll drive."

* * *

Arthur had ripped off the sleeve from his shirt and used it as a makeshift bandage for Eames's wounds and sat in the backseat with Eames's head in his lap while Yusuf carted them off to the hospital.

Arthur stroked a hand through Eames's hair and started quietly singing to keep him peaceful. " _I've fallen out of favor, and I've fallen from grace; fallen out of trees, and I've fallen on my face; fallen out of taxis, out of windows too; fell in your opinion when I fell in love with you_ …"

"Oh, darling," Eames whispered, eyelids drooping a little.

"I told you I remembered," Arthur said quietly, letting his hand fall from Eames's hair to his lips, tracing the top one and then the bottom with a fingertip.

"I believed you… I remember too."

"Eames… let's not keep any secrets from each other from now on, all right?"

"I'll do anything you want… I'd cut my legs off for you right now if you asked me to. I'm sorry…"

"Eames. You should never apologize for feeling trapped. You should never apologize for things that aren't your fault."

"You really bloody do remember," Eames said, smiling ruefully, shutting his eyes and letting a tears slip out of the corner of his eye.

"Some things just stick with you, I guess," Arthur replied, leaned down, and kissed his temple.

"I suppose this means you remember what you said to me that night before we ended everything then, about how you wanted to be as beautiful as I was always saying…"

"I do remember that."

"You _were_ that beautiful then. You're even more beautiful now."

Arthur just placed his palm against Eames's chest, where his heart was. "I still have your sunglasses."

"I still have the paintings of you. They're still at your place, aren't they, Yusuf?"

"My wife hung them up in the guest bathroom," Yusuf said flatly.

"At least your wife appreciates my art."

"She doesn't even know you."

"She doesn't have to."

"When you get out, I'll give them back to you, but only if you're a success story," Yusuf said, turning a corner. "I don't ever want to have to deal with this again, got it? You're my dear friend, but I can only take so much. Arthur's stronger than I am."

"I understand," Eames said. "Thanks, Yusuf."

"Don't thank me. You're probably going to hate me when you detox and go through withdrawal."

"No, I won't," Eames said. "I won't."

Arthur believed him, and somehow, by the way Yusuf smiled lightly, he believed him too.

* * *

Arthur wasn't allowed to see Eames while he was in rehab, so he buried himself in schoolwork and hoped for the best.

He'd told his mother about what had happened and Robert too (albeit hesitantly). His mother had been unbelievably supportive, telling him all about the counseling she'd gone through when she quit drinking. Robert had not said anything about it, which Arthur was grateful for.

Thankfully, the STD test results had come back negative, and Arthur felt stupid for panicking over them in the first place. Even though he wasn't having sex, he still continued to get himself tested just to make sure there was no sign of HIV making itself known. He wasn't terribly concerned about it.

Arthur started going to therapy.

He figured Eames was doing it in his rehab, so he decided to do the same. He wasn't necessarily mentally unstable by any means, but it felt good to vent out his frustrations to someone, to talk about his father and even some issues still lingering about his mother that he hadn't brought out of the surface. He talked mostly about Eames though, and his therapist listened openly and honestly, letting him talk and finish before supplying him with advice. It felt nice to be able to know that he could say things behind closed doors about everything going on in his life. It also felt nice to be told he had a good head on his shoulders on days when he was feeling particularly frazzled.

He kept in touch with Yusuf as well who was relieved more than anyone that Eames had finally accepted going to a rehab center. According to Yusuf, he had just stopped cold turkey the first time which was probably why it was so easy for him to go back to it again in a weak moment. Arthur and he talked in Starbucks every Sunday afternoon, and Yusuf even invited him over for dinner a few times. Arthur got along remarkably well with Yusuf's wife, Uma, which seemed to bother Yusuf, being that Arthur always seemed to get along with his love interests better than he did (he spent the evening mumbling about Ariadne).

It was three months before Arthur saw Eames again. Three long months of school and waiting and waiting and school…

…and then came a phone call.

"Hello?" Arthur asked, rubbing blearily at his eye. It was Saturday and barely seven in the morning.

"Hello darling."

"Eames," Arthur said, nearly dropping the phone. "Jesus, they're letting you call me? Awesome!"

"Actually, I need you to come pick me up. I was trying to let you know in advance, but I couldn't remember your phone number. I got it from Yusuf."

"Ah… yeah, yeah, I'll be there in like… forty-five minutes. Let me just shower and get dressed and shit, ah—"

"I'll be waiting on baited breath, my love."

Arthur nearly leaped out of bed, fully awake now, and clambered into the shower.

He'd gotten his apartment cleaned up and redecorated since most of his furniture had been ruined by paint, and he did manage to convince himself to make up the bed before heading out the door.

The air was warm, being that it was nearly April, so Arthur didn't even dry his hair (he'd cut it in February and tried to keep it somewhat short for the time being) when he bolted out the door. He only realized when he checked his reflection in his rearview mirror that he'd forgotten to shave.

"Oh, well," he said, pulling out of the parking lot and starting for the rehabilitation center.

* * *

Arthur hadn't realized how much he'd missed Eames until he saw him.

He saw him with his bags sitting on the curb, hair long and messy like it had been five years ago, heavier and more awake and with a smudge of paint on his shirt but nothing more than a smudge.

He saw him with a smile on his face and left the car idling while he ran and threw himself around his neck, wrapped his legs around his waist, and kissed his whole face.

"Nice to see you too," Eames chuckled, and Arthur had to wipe a few tears away out of embarrassment.

"Fuck, I missed you—Fuck!"

"Clearly."

Arthur detached himself from Eames's body and just stood in the breeze, touching his face. "So…"

"They said I can come home as long as I go to meetings every week," Eames said, pressing his forehead to Arthur's. "I would so like to come home… if you still want me, that is."

"Don't be a dumbass," Arthur said, tugging at his neck so that he could finally kiss him. "Jeez. I told you before that I love you and I want you and that wasn't going to change."

"I've broken a lot of promises in my life, so forgive me for being afraid," Eames said quietly.

"It's okay to be afraid sometimes," Arthur said, ducking his head into the curve of Eames's neck and kissing there lightly. "Just don't go running back to the drugs when you get scared, okay?"

"Who needs heroin when I have you?" Eames asked.

"I wish you'd come to that conclusion earlier."

"So do I."

Arthur tossed Eames's bags into the backseat. "Let's get the hell out of here," Arthur said.

"One moment," Eames said. "I've got some paintings to go get."

"You're painting again?" Arthur asked, and he was sure his eyes sparkled a little.

"I did it for therapy… and you know, I had some trouble before, but my muse actually isn't dead. I actually found it again."

Arthur shouldn't have been surprised to find that all of Eames's paintings were of him, but it made his heart flutter a little like it had the first time. His paintings were more beautiful than they had ever been, but when Arthur tried to tell him so, Eames humbly declined the compliment. "You're beautiful," he said. "I'm just attempting to capture it."

"You got the eyes right," Arthur supplied, smiling.

"I'll keep practicing," Eames said.

* * *

They fucked three times: once against the wall, once in the bed, and once in the shower. While Arthur shaved, Eames wrapped his arms around his waist and hummed into his shoulder.

"How does it feel to be clean and sober?" Arthur asked, tilting his chin back to get the hairs on his neck.

"It'd be scarier if I were here by myself."

Arthur put the razor down and turned around so that he and Eames were pressed chest to chest. "Are you still scared?"

"A little," Eames admitted. "Are you?"

"Kind of, but… I'm not worried. I believe in us. I believe in you."

"Then I suppose I should believe in me too, right?"

"I suppose so."

They kissed.

"Also," Eames said when he pulled away, "if I ever get back on that stuff, I give you permission to kick my ass, kill me, do what you have to."

"You'd better not," Arthur said, nipping at his bottom lip.

"I don't think that I will," Eames said, leaning against Arthur and letting him gently rock him side to side. "The group meetings and all of that jazz helped me, but really _you_ were the one who helped me the most… The whole time I was in there, I had these moments where I started getting down on myself and badmouthing myself, but then I'd remember what you said to me. I'm ah—I'm sorry about your apartment by the way. I'm really sorry I—"

"You're doing it again," Arthur said.

"Oh, fuck off!" Eames laughed and covered him in kisses.

* * *

Arthur was curled up against Eames on the couch, snoring lightly, while Eames was sifting channels on Arthur's television set. He was perfectly content just being in a place he could call home, even if he did still feel a little bit guilty about all of the new furniture and the missing painting over the mantle. He'd definitely have to paint another one.

Eames sighed, mumbling, "Maybe he has a movie or something…" and hit the button to turn on the DVD player.

Christmas flashed onto the screen… specifically, Cobb's cabin at Christmas with all of them a mere few months ago, and yet it felt like eons. He was a little disgusted by his own appearance there now that he wasn't blinded by denial, and he wondered how anyone thought he was normal at that point.

_"Are you really going to stop smoking?" Eames asked, laughing._

_Arthur looked at the camera, polishing off his fourth glass of wine and said, "Yes, yes—I'm going to stop. This is proof and documentati—docu… this is proof."_

Eames snorted, slipping a hand into Arthur's hair and playing with it. He wondered if Arthur had kept the promise. The apartment certainly didn't smell like cigarettes anymore.

He watched while Arthur lightly kissed him and then Eames laid one on him and then Arthur snogged him, all to the howling sounds of laughter in the background (most predominantly Olivia's since she was holding the camera; she and Arthur laughed the exact same way).

After falling down, Arthur started laughing and Eames pulled him back up, and then he saw something on the tape he hadn't noticed because he was talking to Cobb.

Arthur leaned against his chest to stay standing and looked over at the camera, giving it a shit-eating grin. He traced a heart there on Eames's chest and pressed a kiss right in the middle before pressing the palm of his hand over it to make sure it stayed. It was so cheesy, and he wouldn't have done it had he been sober, but Eames was touched by it.

He looked down at Arthur, sleeping, with his hand on Eames's chest in the exact same place as the video, and maybe he would have done it sober after all.

Eames pulled the dog tags out from the inside of his shirt and rolled them around in his palm. The chain had been broken at the rehab center but one of the workers there had given him two new ones. He pulled the one with his own name off of his neck and gently slipped it around Arthur's, drawing a heart on his chest with his finger and pressing his palm there.

"I love you," he said quietly.

He figured it was some kind of token of a promise. It was a promise that he'd never let Arthur down again as long as he lived (if he could help it), and he would do cheesy lovey-dovey things loudly in public places if it made Arthur happy, and he would kiss away his pain and be there to hear him complain about school or cry when things were bad. It was a promise that he would simply be with him. Forever.

He would tell Arthur about it later when he was awake.

…and they might not have been wedding rings or anything like that, but surely it was close enough.

_(Grace under pressure, cooling palm across my brow, eyes of an angel lay me down..._

_We still believe in love so fuck you.)_


End file.
